You and I at Alcatraz, again; even though we've always despised frat boys with their crisp khaki shorts and beer-clouded eyes, still, free is free, and we've been needing some loud, mindless activity. Speakers mix Jimmy Buffett with the latest gangsta rap as we drink vodka and Hawaiian Punch from paint cans, sloshing thin red rivers down our white shirts like war paint. Boys with names lost in the pound of the crowd offer to lap it from our necks, the sides of our breasts as we curse and push our way to the bathroom, where we are surrounded only by other girls, all smiling too brightly and hopping to the beat of their bladders. A small, classy-looking blonde hoists herself onto a sink. I can't take it anymore, she says, and leans back against the mirror, skirt hiked up, eyes half-closed in relief. Later, we laugh too loudly as we tell our interchangeable dates, but they think it's sexy. An old boyfriend once told me you run faster when you're drunk, that your body forgets the speed at which it normally moves. I can't remember why I left, or why you didn't go with me, only how quickly I ran across the slopes and hills of campus that night, the wind beating hard against my bare arms and ears. I didn't think I was fleeing, then.
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