You stand in line for the single stall men’s bathroom, which is the only bathroom that doesn’t have an out of order sign haphazardly taped across it, behind two twenty-something Californian blond guys who look like they’ve just appeared straight from a Billabong ad. You’re at a bar with a bunch of people who are all far more interesting and accomplished than you are and feeling like maybe you should have just stayed home. Your nerves are doing acrobatics, so you’ve had one too many Cuba Libres, and your bladder pushes uncomfortably against the elastic of your panties—highwaisted to smooth out the bit of middle-age spread that’s begun to appear around your midsection despite your careful whole-foods diet. The door finally opens and one of the guys in front of you tells you to go first. You say, that’s okay, you can wait. The guy tells you they don’t even need to piss; they’re just doing drugs. You say you really don’t mind waiting while they do drugs. They seem impressed and tell you this generosity of spirit has earned you instant social capital, which you can now exchange for drugs. Specifically, cocaine. You demure. You’re 42 (it’s actually your birthday weekend), and you’re a mother, you say. You haven’t done coke since your twenties. They insist that just means it’s been way too long, and it is, after all, your birthday weekend. You deserve to treat yourself. You think about how your husband told you in front of your oldest that you weren’t cool anymore and how you sometimes suspect he cheats on you when he goes out of town for work, and you think, fuck it. It’s just a line of coke. Why not? No one even has to know. You’re laughing at the absurdness of the situation as they usher you in. The first guy does a bump from a little glass vile with a scoop, then says it’s your turn. You say just a little, it’s been a very long time. He obliges by shaking half the powder off the scoop back into the vile. You snort it and say, God, I haven’t done cocaine inforever. The guy shakes his head in confusion. Coke? Man, that was fentanyl. Your head reels and the floor feels like it’s fallen out from under you. You think you might pass out or piss your pants because you’re a middle-aged woman and you’ve just snorted fentanyl with a couple of literal strangers in a fucking bar bathroom stall. Oh, fuck, you say. I thought you said it was coke. The guy breaks into a wide grin and they both start laughing. Oh, man he says. Really had you there for a second! He puts a comforting hand on your shoulder. Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Yeah, it’s just coke. Don’t worry, you’re all good.