A long nap was only good enough to heal half of my headache. The other half was taking a shower, and I could hear the water running on the other side of the bedroom wall. Soon he would walk out, we’d get dressed and go down to the party, and I’d have to spend the night pretending everything was normal.

The pills I’d taken the night before, or rather earlier that morning, were still sitting in the same corner of the drawer, right where I’d left them. The top of the ziplock bag was open, parting like lips that called my name. I threw a quick glance over my shoulder, double-checking that Pablo was still in the shower, and grabbed a pill between my fingers.

With the lights on, I could see them better. They were the same shape and size as the candy Ana used to bring back from the Dominican Republic. Their color was bright pink, the exact shade of the rose-tinted glasses that had fallen on my nose the last time I had popped one in my mouth.

I figured that it couldn’t be that wrong if it felt this right, and barely flinched as I delicately placed the pill on top of my tongue.

By the time Pablo had stepped out of the shower and walked back into the room, my skin was already tingling, and the corners of my mouth were itching to curl up for no particular reason. The sun had already set, yet I could still feel it kissing my face.

Senseless joy built up in my chest as the drugs rushed up my veins and seeped into my brain. As soon as I found a reason to smile, I burst out laughing. That reason was Pablo, and the ridiculous clothes he was wearing.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, as he admired himself in a mirror.

“Your suit,” I wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. “What the fuck is that?”

He placed his hands on his chest, smoothing down the velvet of his leopard-print shirt. As wild as it may seem, the shirt wasn’t the problem. It was the matching pants and velvet slippers, all adorned in the same leopard pattern, that made Pablo look like a caricatural, hypersexual, 70′s B-movie villain.

“You don’t like it?” he frowned, as he untangled a couple of golden chains hanging around his neck.

I stood beside him, staring in the mirror, and held back a laugh. He’d picked me a dress made of the same fabric, that outrageous leopard-print velvet, with a neckline that plunged sideways and a high slit above my leg, as if it had been torn apart by a wild animal. As stupid as I felt in this dress, I had to admit – at least it made my figure look great.

“It’s the tackiest shit I’ve ever seen,” I giggled. “What was the theme again?”

“Rumble in the Jungle,” he said as he popped on a pair of aviator glasses. “I think we look like sexy beasts.”

“Well, I think we look like the fucking Flintstones,” I snorted.

“I wanted to get you a real leopard on a leash, but Beto said it wasn’t a good idea,” he muttered.

“In what world does bringing a living, breathing leopard to a party sound like a good idea?” I sighed.

“I think it would have looked very cool,” he shrugged.

“People would have died, Pablo,” I answered, rolling my eyes at him.

“That’s the fun part,” he chuckled, combing his mustache with his fingertips as a last touch to his farcical style. “You could have murdered someone and made it look like an accident.”

The first thought that had crossed my mind when Pablo had mentioned the leopard, was that I could have bonded with the poor beast over the fact that we both were stuck here against our own will, that we would rather be running free in some remote place on the other side of the world, and that we were condemned to live our lives in captivity just because someone else found our presence to be entertaining.

But I liked Pablo’s idea more. It was less depressing. I could have gone on a rampage, set the leopard loose, and let it rip off a few people’s faces clean off of their empty skulls. I couldn’t help but smirk at the thought.

“That’s the smile of a woman with a hit list,” Pablo snickered.

“Yup,” I nodded. “And you are right on top of it.”

“Be careful,” he whispered as he slid a hand on the small of my back. “Nothing makes me go wild like a woman who wants to kill me.”

I gulped, and looked into his smoldering, brown eyes. His chest felt warm against my own, and crushed me with each of his longing breaths. He fascinated me, just as much as he terrified me. Both of those feelings would constantly merge together, and cause my pulse to skyrocket.

“Everybody’s waiting,” he murmured. “We should get downstairs before they start worrying.”

Even after he spoke, Pablo didn’t move an inch. He stayed there, staring back at me, slowly leaning in towards my lips as his fingers dug deeper into my waist.

“And before you turn into an animal and tear my clothes off,” I breathed into his ear.

“I didn’t dare say it, but that too.”

He smiled, I smiled, and the conversation ended there.

I could hear the crowd as soon as we left the room. At first, it was a distant murmur, rumbling at the end of the corridor, but soon it turned into a howling cacophony of lively conversations echoing in the Grand Hall.

Laughter and screams of joy bounced off the dome above us, and for once, I felt no apprehension before I dove into the crowd. I cracked my knuckles and stretched my neck, ready to shake a hundred hands and kiss as many cheeks.

Pablo grabbed my hand as we got closer to the staircase. Down there, it was like a zoo. There were countless suits in tiger prints, every shade and shape I could have ever imagined, and tall giraffes perched on high heels. A group of women had dressed like parrots, and wore nothing but bikinis and towering crowns of colorful feathers. Another lady had gotten pretty creative, and teased her blonde hair into a lion’s mane.

A clamor rose in the Hall as Pablo and I appeared on the balcony, and people began to cheer and wave at us as if we were some kind of royalty. The crowd flocked to the bottom of the staircase like animals at a watering hole, desperate to get a sip before everyone else did.

“Now imagine this, but with a real leopard,” muttered Pablo. “Man, I hate Beto.”

I didn’t have time to muster up an answer, let alone a clever one, before someone grabbed me by the arm and tore me away from Pablo, like meat off of a bone.

I used to think that I’d enjoy being famous, diving into crowds to be showered in love and attention, but after telling a dozen strangers I was sooo glad they came tonight, when in fact I couldn’t care less, after smiling so much that I started to think my face might stay frozen, and after my shoulder was almost dislocated by a man far too eager to meet me, the only thing I wanted was to see a familiar face.

Pablo had disappeared in a whirlpool of people, and I elbowed my way out of the crowd’s deadly pull. I headed straight to a corner of the hall and the only person I knew. Juan was hiding behind a marble statue, peeking over his shoulder and sipping on his drink, dressed from head to toe in a zebra-print party suit.

“You’re getting popular,” he chuckled as he greeted me with a kiss on the cheek.

“I don’t know a single one of those people,” I sighed, running my fingers through my hair to fix it.

“These big parties are only fun if you like the attention,” mumbled Juan. “Pablo loves them.”

“I enjoyed it for like a minute, but then it got hard to breathe,” I said. “Why do they think it’s okay to grab us like that?”

“They’re fucking leeches, Em,” he muttered. “They’re desperate to get invited to the more exclusive parties, so they’ll pretend to be besties with you just because they think you’re Pablo’s girlfriend.

“I am Pablo’s girlfriend,” I replied.

Juan raised his eyebrows, and drowned the words he wished he could have said in a long gulp of his drink. I rolled my eyes, too high and mellow to feel like arguing again. Andrea broke the thin sheet of ice between us when she showed up squeezed in a snakeskin tube dress, her hair slicked back in a low ponytail.

“Hey guys,” she squealed as she wrapped her arms around us, trapping us in a group hug. “Isn’t Manée here?”

“She’d rather be dead than wear any kind of animal print,” Juan shrugged. “Her words, not mine.”

“Well she didn’t have to,” she drawled. Her rosy cheeks and drawn-out speech were a dead giveaway that she was already tipsy. “Look at Cassie, she just dressed up as a mouse.”

“She’s not a mouse,” Juan snickered. “She told me she’s supposed to be a cheeky monkey.”

“Since when do monkeys have whiskers?” I mumbled.

We watched in silence as Cassie, whose face paint was already smudged and hair extensions hung loose on one side of her head, rubbed her butt against Beto’s leg. The poor man looked terrified.

“I think I need a drink,” muttered Andrea, scrunching up her nose. “Anyway, who wants to do shots?”

I knew that if I refused, Andrea would insist, and then I didn’t want to find an excuse, but I knew all too well that you don’t mix drugs with alcohol. I’d spent too many nights picking my mother up from the floor as she lay in a pool of her own vomit, still clutching an empty bottle of liquor.

It was always the same sad scene, where someone else’s prescription pills were spilled out on the living room table, and either one of her many useless boyfriends was passed out on the couch.

I’d called 911 so many times that one time, a dispatcher recognized my voice on the phone. The local EMTs got to wish me a happy birthday, three years in a row. When we ran out of paper towels, I’d use her unpaid medical bills to wipe her puke off of the floor.

It’s awful, I know, but this is just to say I was very, very aware that you should never, ever mix drugs with alcohol. And yet, I still smiled at Andrea when I answered:

“Sure.”

“I’ll make you girls some drinks,” said Juan, and I could have sworn he was side-eyeing me.

We weaseled our way out of the hall and gathered around the pool bar. The garden seemed empty and quiet in comparison to the inside of the house, despite the several groups of partygoers that had fled there to play drinking games and listen to some loud reggaeton.

I nervously danced from one foot to the other, grinding my teeth as Juan poured us our drinks. As soon as Andrea had her glass in hand, she seemed to forget about us and ran away to greet a friend, leaving me alone with him.

“Do you like it?” asked Juan, staring at me as I took a sip.

I nodded, hiding my mouth behind my glass to hide my shameful grimace. My drink was pure orange juice, without a single drop of alcohol. At least it was real orange juice, and not the stuff that tastes like medicine.

“Is it that obvious?” I mumbled, nibbling a chunk of skin on my bottom lip.

“That you didn’t want to drink, or that you’re on drugs?” he retorted.

“Both, I guess,” I answered with a sigh.

“Why wouldn’t you just tell us?”

“I don’t know,” I murmured as I put down my drink. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Just be honest for once, Em,” he muttered. “You already have enough things to worry about.”

“Yeah,” I gulped. “Speaking of which, Juan, I really need you to promise you won’t tell anyone.”

“Tell them what?”

“You know, the–”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he shrugged. “I know nothing about you, Emilia Kovács.”

He winked, and smiled, and my heart fluttered like a butterfly in my chest. I could feel its wings brushing against my skin, I could even see it under my eyelids. It was one of those orange butterflies that looked like flying Doritos.

Then, the strangest thing happened: Juan and I exchanged some small talk. Just random conversations, nothing stressful or important, and for once a bit of normalcy didn’t feel so weird.

We debated on the evening’s best outfits. I had a soft spot for the parrots, while he raved about the guy who’d misunderstood the theme and showed up with boxing gloves. In the end, we both agreed it was hilarious that Pablo had gotten all of his bodyguards to wear gorilla suits.

We laughed at all the desperate things people did to grab anyone’s attention, mocking them behind their backs like we’d known each other forever. I felt worriless, almost weightless, and we laughed to the point of tears as we commented on the guests and their mating dances as if we were narrating one of those animal TV shows.

Andrea and her friend, another loud brunette dressed in a furry swimming costume and animal ears, were running in circles around the garden, holding their drinks in one hand and a bottle in the other, asking everyone they came across if they would do shots with them.

Soon it was our turn, and before I knew it, Andrea’s friend was waving a bottle of rum in front of my face.

“Oh, no thanks,” I declined, gently pushing the bottle away.

Andrea let out an exaggerated gasp, and her bottom lip jutted out.

“I’m, uh, trying to drink less,” I stuttered.

“Last time she got too drunk, she punched me in the face,” Juan added.

“Yeah, sorry about that, by the way,” I muttered under my breath.

Andrea shrugged it off, but her friend kept staring at us with a fake, frozen smile.

“You guys are such a cute couple,” she slurred.

“Oh, we’re not together,” I quickly replied. “We’re just friends.”

“Nice,” she murmured.

The girl blew Juan a kiss as Andrea dragged her away to go bother someone else, but he hardly paid attention to her. Instead, he turned to me with his eyebrows raised and a boyish grin plastered on his face.

“Oh my God,” Juan whispered. “You just said we were friends.”

“And?” I frowned.

“I feel like we’ve hit a milestone, Emily Smith.”

“Calm down, John Glade,” I jeered. “It’s not that deep.”

“It’s John Danger Glade,” he corrected me, nudging my shoulder. “Put some respect on my name, Miss Smith.”

“What’s my middle name?” I asked him. “I want one too.”

“Sloppy,” he answered. “Emily Sloppy Smith.”

“Fuck off,” I snickered. “I hate you.”

“Sorry about my friend,” muttered Andrea as she stumbled back towards us. “She a bit– oh my God, what is wrong with that guy?”

“Who?” I asked.

“Your boyfriend,” she shrieked. “Why does he always do that with his shirts?”

Pablo was stumbling around nearby, a trail of scantily-clad partygoers swooning behind him. His shirt had at least five buttons undone, putting most of his hairy stomach on display.

“I think it’s a scale, like a measurement unit for how fucked up he is,” I cackled. “The more his shirt is open, the more drugs he’s taken.”

“I like your theory,” Juan murmured as he leaned against the bar. “Please elaborate.”

I put down my glass and cleared my throat. “Right, so if he only has one-button-down, it’s a sign that he’s sober.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with just one button undone,” mumbled Andrea as she struggled to climb up a bar stool, spilling a bit of her drink down her cleavage.

“That’s because he’s never sober,” I answered. “Now you might have seen him with two buttons down, which means he’s only had two or three drinks. You can observe him in this state in the early morning, usually before breakfast. He is pretty docile and inoffensive. You can approach him, pat him on the head, he won’t bark or bite.”

Juan’s smile widened, and Andrea nodded in agreement as she licked the drops of liquor on her fingers. We all stared at Pablo, dancing in the distance with a cheap-looking prostitute and a half-empty bottle of mezcal in his hand.

“Three buttons down is when things get a little heated,” I continued. “He’s getting quite tipsy, and may be classified as a mild menace to society. He thinks he can still drive, but experts will advise you to throw his car keys in a ditch. If all else fails, tighten your seatbelt and pray to Jesus. Then comes–”

My presentation was shortly interrupted by shouting and broken glass coming from the other side of the bar. Juan put his hand on my shoulder and said:

“Please continue. You have my full attention.”

“Right. Then comes four-button-down Pablo,” I said. “This is his horniest form, because he’s still sober enough to remember where his own dick is. Unless you’re a prostitute, you might want to keep a safe distance, because this is when he starts getting a little belligerent, just like the men over there.”

I pointed at the two guys who had been fighting a few seconds ago, but they’d already made up and sealed their friendship by sharing a line of tequila shots.

“I didn’t know all of this,” drawled Andrea, staring at me through the bottom of her empty glass.

I was on a roll, elated by the drugs and Juan’s wide grin, so I kept on going:

“Five buttons down is when things start to get really weird. Pablo will spend fifty percent of his time glitching out in a complete state of confusion, and the other half throwing handfuls of cocaine at the crowd and telling them it’s snowing.”

As if to illustrate my words, Pablo slowly stopped dancing. The girl he was dancing with put her hands on his chest, but he quickly pushed her away, and jumped over to a random group where he started pouring shots of mezcal directly into their mouths, like a mother bird feeding its fledglings.

“Six-button-down Pablo is aptly named, as he usually has just about the same number of different drugs mixed in his system,” I chuckled. “Approach with extreme caution, and if possible, with a lethal weapon. I say lethal, because Six-button-down Pablo can get tazed and keep on running. He is almost invincible and he knows it.”

“All true,” Juan said as he leaned towards Andrea. “I’ve seen it first-hand.”

“Seven-button-down Pablo, or Open-Shirt Pablo, is the most dangerous form. Legend says he can survive a bullet to the head and not feel a thing. The quantity and diversity of substances in his bloodstream will baffle even the most seasoned doctors. Open-Shirt Pablo should not be alive, both from a scientific and an ethical point of view.”

My rant had already lost Andrea’s attention. She’d sacrificed it to a bottle of gin she’d found nearby, and was painstakingly trying to top up her drink without spilling booze all over the bar. Juan was still laughing, his dark, black eyes staring right into mine.

“At that point, you’re better off getting him to his last state of No-Shirt-Pablo,” I told him. “Not to be confused with a sober-ish Pablo chilling by the pool, No-Shirt-Pablo is also an aquatic creature found around bodies of water, however usually he’ll be floating face down. His shirt is usually in a bush somewhere in the forest, and oftentimes isn’t worth retrieving. The protocol requires you to call his bodyguards and get them to drag him back to bed. He’ll wake up the next morning with nothing more than a slight headache.”

“What about No-button-down Pablo?” asked Juan. “What does he do?”

“Ooh... I think if you ever see him, you should run,” I chuckled. “No buttons down means something’s very wrong.”

“Your imagination is running wild tonight,” he laughed.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Good,” he smirked. “I think you’re really funny, actually.”

“I’ve always been really funny,” I snickered, rolling my eyes at him.

“Well, I’m glad I’ve finally noticed.”

Growing up, I would have rather been told I was cute than funny. Most guys I’d met and been on dates with had told me I was funny, and I’d answer with a fake smile and a concealed sigh. It always felt like a cop-out for guys who wanted to say something nice, but just didn’t think I was that pretty. But the way Juan had said it sounded genuine, and the grin on my lips was just as real.

“Are you blushing?” he asked.

“No, I’m–″ I stammered. “I’m just hot.”

“Well, I knew you were funny the minute I met you,” Andrea slurred as she turned back toward us.

“What, when I said I’d tried to kill myself?” I frowned.

“Wasn’t that a joke?” she chirped.

Juan coughed loudly, and I tried my best not to wince.

“Sorry, my drink went down the wrong way,” he choked.

“Anyways,” she shrugged. “I think that’s why you and Pablo are such a good match. You’re both so quirky.”

“Quirky?” scoffed Juan. “He’s a fucking weirdo.”

“He’s like Jack Sparrow but with ponies and cocaine instead of ships and rum,” I said, hoping my joke would clear the atmosphere of the lingering awkwardness.

“Huh, I always say he’s the Willy Wonka of drugs,” Juan replied. “He has a drawer full of experimental stuff right next to his bed.”

“Willy Wonka freaks me out,” muttered Andrea. “He looks like he kidnaps children.”

I held back my breath and pinched my lips, trying my best not to let my jaw drop. Juan’s eyes opened wide, and he quietly downed the rest of his drink. Andrea squinted as she stared over my shoulder, oblivious to the uncomfortable silence.

“Let’s talk about something else than Pablo,” Juan mumbled.

“Are you sure?” said Andrea. “Because I have some choice words about what he’s doing right now.”

I turned around, only to see the gut-wrenching scene of Pablo dancing with Cassie. The black makeup she’d used to paint on her monkey whiskers was smeared on his cheek, and his hands were crawling all over her half-naked body.

The sight of another woman grinding on him made my heart drop down to my stomach, and brought tears to my eyes. I finished my orange juice in one big gulp, and for the first time that evening, I wished it had at least a tiny bit of alcohol.

“Em?” Juan whispered. “Are you alright?”

“It’s nothing, don’t worry,” I lied. “I don’t care.”

I pretended to shrug it off, but couldn’t think of anything else for the rest of the evening. I found it hard to come up with any other jokes, and stayed quiet until the night ended.

When I woke up next to Pablo the next morning, I still felt like shit. I took another one of those little pink pills as soon as he had his back turned, and that kept me happy enough to make it through the day.

I did the same thing on the next day, and then the one after that. I’d dive into the drawer of the night table first thing every morning, and the drugs would wear off just in time for me to sleep at night.

But good things never last, and each passing day chipped away at the mellow euphoria I’d get from the drugs. It got to the point where I felt just as awful as I did before.

So I started taking two pills in one go.

And then still, happiness was just out of reach. I never felt as good as the first time I took the pills. The more I longed for the feeling, the harder it seemed to achieve it.

I desperately chased the high, and instead, I just hit a new low.

Rumble In The Jungle

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