We know the bar owner.
He's young and hip and has a million sexy girls at his place trying to wiggle their way in rather than wait in line, pay the cover or miss the opportunity to be part of his guest list.
We're older than most of the crowd and they eye us, hand in hand, making our way beyond the velvet place holders, straight to the bouncer with his clipboard and ID checker.
We are in and the place is jumping.
Lights, music, a DJ in a giant birdcage controlling the beat and mood of a packed dance floor.
Eric shakes hands and I hug the bar owner, receive a kiss on each cheek.
"She's beautiful," he says to my husband, who nods and mouths, "I know."
I dance. I dance like there is no tomorrow.
Young men reach out, touch my shoulders, hair and body. They pull me away from Eric, beg for my attention and call me "baby".
I dance and dance.
I spin and twirl.
I laugh and make my way around the men and back to Eric.
There is one, bold beyond reason, who won't take no for an answer.
I swing to his right and he grabs my left.
My arms reach high as I turn in his hands, a ballerina stuck on a little girls jewelry box.
Eric leans back against a pillar and watches the overzealous stud, toy with his wife.
I glow in the attention of two suitors, one real and one imagined.
The beat quickens and our feet and hands move in time to the rhythm.
Sweat runs down my back and I glisten under a mirrored ball.
The song ends and Eric grabs the back of my hair, pulling my ear to his lips.
"He's too young for you pretty girl," he snarls and I catch his eye, knowing full well he is honored that another man wants what he has.
We stay until well past midnight and last call comes and goes.
The wayward drunks wobble out to the streets and the bar owner offers us a round on him.
Eric is tired but I want to stay.
"Whatever you like, love."
We chat about how we all met, years ago, and laugh about the memories we share.
The bar owner cleans glasses, closes bottles and wipes down sticky counters.
He goes to the ice maker and taking a large flat wooden spoon, cracks through large pieces that melted and molded, refreezing into a sheet of tiny squares bound together inside the machine.
"May I?" Eric asks, reaching out for the spoon.
The bar owner hands over the spoon, curiosity splashed across his brow. He watches as Eric gently touches the tip to my chin and draws an invisible line to the other side of the bar where I sit. I understand, swallow hard and lean across the counter, my hips resting where my hands had just been.
Fresh night air comes in through a partially open window and brushes across the skin of my cheeks when Eric raises my skirt and bares my bottom. I'm sure the DJ can see.
Twelve hard swats have me clutching the bar, my face and ass matching, a bright shade of crimson in front of our friend.
Skirt down and spoon resting on the counter, Eric leads me to the dance floor and nods in the direction of the bird cage. The DJ plays Thinking Outloud and I twirl and spin once again, this time in the arms of the man I love.
Still flushed, we bid our host farewell and head back to the hotel. Chilled mist from the ocean waves cool flaming red cheeks, spanked at the bar.