The bar filled quicker than I imagined it would. I try to slide between the tight pack of bodies on my way to the ladies room. Still, some drunken oaf bumps his arm straight into me and a splash of beer splatters my breast and soaks my bright red dress.

I look up to reproach the man, but his red cheeks and toothy grin imply that he probably spilt the beer on me by accident as some kind of misguided conversation starter that only makes sense to drunk guys.

Around the pool tables, and down the narrow well lit hallway, and soon I push open the door to the ladies room. Both of the stalls are occupied, so I step up to the mirror and take a look at myself.

The red of my dress is dark from the beer, and I mutter a low curse, knowing it'll probably stain. But once I look past the beer splatter, I see myself. I look fatter than I remembered looking. At five foot two, I'm more curvy than anything else, and have to depend on at least four inch heels to give me a chance to blend into a crowd. As I look closer, I decide I shouldn't have worn such a low cut dress; my over-sized 40F breasts are already starting to sneak out the top of it, and I have to squeeze and force them back in.

I start to re-apply lipstick when I hear a slap come from one of the stalls. I freeze and listen closely. A moment later, I hear a deep voice whisper: "Keep quiet you bitch."