Amy Bohlman
The plane touched down after gliding over the handsome jagged landscape of skyscrapers. The woman grabbed her carry-on, then moved swiftly to the Uber, the office, the hotel, and then dinner, in a practiced dance of logistics with help from apps and assistants.
The restaurant downtown was boisterous, rowdy corporate kids out for recess, energy competing with the music. Drinks were ordered, she was laughing, and someone was watching, not just her, but the other woman too, in their smart blazers and wrap-dresses. Someone carefully eyed what they reached into to retrieve their phones and lipsticks, how expensive the leather looked, the label of the bags.
The margarita tasted exactly how she wanted it, sweet and tart with a touch of spice. She subtly removed the small jalapeno round, seeds starting to float with the ice cube, then folded it into the cocktail napkin, and made a quiet comment about being a lightweight with the heat. They ordered tacos and queso. She sipped and laughed some more.
She couldn't taste the added ingredient, the one that made her legs feel like rubber when she got up to use the bathroom. The one that caused her colleague to fall back and hit her head on the brick wall in the alley outside. The one that caused her colleague's husband to call the restaurant later inquiring if they knew.
The one that made the other woman stay out, made the next bar blur into black. The ingredient they admitted sprinkling into the salt-rimmed glasses in order to steal their purses. Probably a busboy. Just to steal a purse or two. It's happened before anyway, they told him.
There was more in the mix later, other hard stuff: the swirl of anxiety and guilt the next morning because she thought she might miss the day's meetings while the room spun, her organs throbbed, and she cried in the hotel room. What made her berate herself, doubt herself, blame herself for "the crazy night" as she called it, "my fault," she said, over and over in her mind.
It blended beautifully with the reason she laughed along with her male coworkers when they didn't believe her. The reason the husband was angered but accepted the restaurant's casual admission without pursuing further action. The reason neither woman went to the hospital. The reason she just took a handful of Ibuprofen from her not stolen, not expensive purse, and threw it up with the water she tried to wash it down with.
The reason she didn't write this in first person. The reason she still tells people, a hint of shame lingering like the faintest smell of vomit, "I'm just glad this was my roofie story," as if it was inevitable, as if she deserved worse.