Tall ships lined up like regal ducks in the Delaware outside the floor to ceiling windows of the Rusty Scupper. The lights from Penns Landing illuminated their bulky masts, casting cross-shaped shadows upon the concrete. It was nearly midnight. Two parties hung on for last call: a middle-aged couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and two handsome guys who’d been downing gin and tonics for nearly two hours. Exhausted after a long shift, I looked forward to washing the smoke and liquor off my body and crawling into my bed a few blocks away.

 “You doing anything after work?” the blue-eyed guy asked as I placed his last drink in front of him. The one who looked like a tennis player looked into my eyes, awaiting the answer.

 I fiddled with the cash box, made change. “Just going home. It’s been a long day.” I handed Blue Eyes a few bills.

 “Keep it.”

 I thanked him and returned to the bar. Mike, the bartender, was performing his nightly cleaning ritual. The couple stood to leave. The woman knocked her knee against the table. The man knelt down to kiss it before they staggered out. I thought the gesture endearing.

 “How long you think they’ll be?” Mike motioned to the guys.

 I glanced over, noticed their glasses half empty. Tennis Guy saw me and waved in our direction. “Guess I’ll find out.”

 “We were thinking we should walk you home. There’s a lot of crazies out there,” he spoke as if he hadn’t been drinking at all.

 “Thanks, but I’m fine.” I found myself flattered, interested even, but I knew better.

 “Come on.” Blue Eyes said. “We don’t bite. Besides, we’re law students.”

 A rising senior at Temple University majoring in Philosophy, I had taken the LSAT and would soon decide between law school and graduate school. The first in my family to go to college, I felt ill-equipped to weigh my options. Money, as always, topped the list, but there were always loans. Friends were little help. My boyfriend of two years and I had broken up and my best friend, already committed to Temple Law, begged me to join her.

 “Really? I may go to law school in two years.”

 “See? It’s a sign.” Tennis Guy downed his drink. “We’ll wait for you outside.”

*

O’Neils, a lively Irish bar just off South Street, stood between the Rusty Scupper and home. As we approached, music and laughter blared out the door. Blue Eyes and Tennis Guy flanked me and asked, “One more?”

Tequila. I vaguely remember tequila shots and salt and the sting of lemon.

The weight of Blue Eyes on top of me jolted me into reality. He smashed his lips to mine and bit my lip. His bare chest bore down on mine. One breast lay open above my black lacy bra. I lifted both hands, grabbed his shoulders, and pushed upward.

 “Get off!”

 Blue Eyes shot daggers at me. “What the fuck? You want this, bitch.” He pressed his hard cock, still trapped inside his jockies, against my crotch. “See what you did?”

I wriggled beneath him. “No!”

Tennis Guy’s voice appeared from behind me. “Hey, man. She said, ‘No.’”

“She won’t remember shit in the morning.”

“What if she does?” Tennis Guy sounded worried. “Our law careers are over!”

Blue Eyes sat back. A gold cross dangled from a chain, rested in a tangle of black chest hair. He glared at Tennis Guy. “This is fucked up.” He climbed off me and strutted into the kitchen.

Tennis Guy bent down, handed me my clothes. “The bathroom’s down the hall,” he whispered.

I heard heated conversation as I threw on my clothes. I wondered where my shoes were, tried to picture where the door was, considered taking the razor from the sink as a weapon. Somewhere, a door slammed.

My plan was to exit the bathroom, scan the floor for my shoes, grab them, and run out the door. Once safe, I’d go from there. I only knew I was in an apartment, but had no idea exactly where.

Tennis Guy waited by the door, my shoes in hand. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t tell anybody.”

I burst into the street to find myself a few blocks from home.

I was no longer interested in the law. The next fall, I applied to graduate school.

-Sally Simon

Sally Simon lives in the Catskills of New York State. Her writing has appeared in Hobart, Truffles Literary Magazine, After the Pause, Flash Fiction Magazine, and elsewhere. She recently finished writing a novel. When not writing, she’s either traveling the world or stabbing people with her epee. Read more at www.sallysimonwriter.com.