Before the Night Goes Wrong

You hate it when Elsie wears that dress, but it’s not like you’re going to say anything about it. That thing is greener than Kermit the Frog. Shiny too, like Kermit dipped in disco paint. And it’s cheap. Polyester. Elsie will be leaving glitter ass prints on every seat tonight, grinding iridescent galaxies on crotches across town until even the most relentless clubs close and the exhausted sky surrenders to morning.

“You like?” Elsie asks. They twirl. Glitter particles release like toxic spores.

The worst truth is that you do like. You love. You yearn with a belly-clenching hunger that forces you to look away. Elsie knows something you don’t about charisma—unteachable things involving hair flips and banter and letting their hips do whatever they want.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you send it to voicemail. Your mother has taken to calling you every night, warning you about the city. 

“I’ve seen things,” she’ll whisper. She’s a trauma nurse downtown. “Something unnatural is happening out there.”

But you don’t want to think about unnatural things—patients with inexplicable symptoms, unearthly new street drugs on the nightly news. You are trying to be young and effervescent and true. You sip your beer and hope your mother doesn’t call back.

Elsie swipes on a gut-punch of screaming-pink lipstick. They pop their lips together and pucker sweetly at their reflection. You size yourself up behind them in the mirror—black tank top, black tube skirt, limp hair refusing to hold a curl. You see yourself for who you really are: the responsible one, the prude, a bore.

There’s a rattle at the door and Zeke lets himself in. He hasn’t lived here since graduation last spring, but you can’t remember the last time he’s knocked. 

“Holy radiation fairy!” Zeke shouts at Elsie, taking in their green. They pirouette from the mirror and blow him a kiss, which he snatches from the air and pretends to gobble up. Zeke’s got charisma too, only goofier, lankier, a touch more feral. 

He notices you second, though you are closer to the door.

“Looking good,” he says. No nickname for you. 

Then Zeke is beckoning you both to the kitchen. “Check this out,” he whispers, his voice suddenly low. He shoots you a wink as you crowd in together. Your shoulder brushes Elsie’s and you realize you are sweating, already buzzed off lukewarm beer.

Zeke digs into his pocket, pulls his hand out in a fist. He glances up, flashing that devilish smile. His eyebrows waggle. His fingers unfurl. 

In his palm are three perfect spheres, each one luminescent and darkly shining. Their oily surfaces shift and undulate, rippling as though almost alive.

You open your mouth to protest. Even these two should know what they’re doing is reckless. But Elsie grabs your hand, squeezes, giggles. You clutch them, a tether, and they squeeze again. 

“Once we take them, we should stick together,” Zeke says. “But don’t be nervous. My guy promised they’re good.”

Elsie is watching you, waiting for your reaction. You meet their eyes and a dormant thread of mischief stirs beneath your skin. Maybe you won’t lose them tonight to some tall, shapely someone. You might dance until daybreak, walk home hand in hand. Maybe Zeke will come too and crash on the couch. Like old times, or old times remade to feel new. 

Zeke watches you. His smile widens. The orbs seem to tremble—engorged, greedy.

“Now or never,” Zeke says, and pops one in his mouth. Elsie goes next, closing their eyes. You hear the orb burst between their molars. Midnight ooze coats their teeth when they grin.

The orb is liquid smooth in your hand. You are always so careful, always so good. Your phone buzzes again, quiet in your pocket. 

You will call your mother back tomorrow. 

You lift the orb to your lips. 

Tonight is for you.

© 2025 Gina Thayer

Gina Thayer's work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Rumpus, Barrelhouse, HAD, hex, trampset, Cotton Xenomorph, Sundog Lit, Lunch Ticket, and Five South, among others, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She holds an MFA in writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts and is currently working on a collection of speculative stories. After several years in the Pacific Northwest, Gina now lives in Minneapolis with their partner and cat.