THE WOMAN FROM THE CLUB
I never learned her name.
And for almost two months, I didn’t think that mattered.
It happened on a Saturday night.
My friends had convinced me to go to a club after a long week at work. I wasn’t looking for anyone. I just wanted a few drinks, loud music, and a night where I didn’t have to think about Monday morning.
Then I noticed her.
She was standing near the bar in a black dress, looking at me every few minutes before quickly turning away.
Eventually, I smiled.
She smiled back.
That was all it took.
We started talking, although between the music and the alcohol, I probably heard only half of what she said. We laughed, danced, ordered another drink, and sometime after two in the morning, we left together.
I remember the taxi.
I remember her perfume.
I remember opening the door to my apartment.
The rest of the night exists only in fragments.
When I woke up, sunlight was coming through the curtains.
She was gone.
No message.
No phone number.
I couldn’t even remember her full name.
I sat on the edge of my bed trying to reconstruct the night.
Then I laughed at myself, took a shower, and went for coffee.
I thought that was the end of the story.
Three weeks later, my body told me otherwise.
I noticed a small sore while getting dressed.
It wasn’t painful.
It wasn’t itchy.
It didn’t look particularly frightening.
I assumed it was irritation and ignored it.
A few days passed.
Then another week.
Eventually, it disappeared completely.
Problem solved, I thought.
But about a month later, something else started happening.
I felt unusually tired.
Then I noticed several faint spots across my torso.
At first, I blamed a new shower gel.
I stopped using it.
The spots remained.
I changed my laundry detergent.
Nothing changed.
Then one morning, while drinking coffee, I looked down at my hands.
I froze.
There were spots on my palms.
And suddenly, I remembered the woman in the black dress.
PART 2 — NEXT PAGE
