Dana tells a joke about hips. Dana's drunk and she rests one elbow on her hip and peers through a shot glass at her kitchen window and the streetlight outside. She says her friend got drunk too fast and fell down and hurt her hip. Now her hip's shot. That's the joke. Her hips is shot from a hip shot hip shot. Dana giggles so hard her elbow slides off her hip and her shot glass splashes onto her thighs. Get it? Like hip is cool? It's cool to drink shots? A hip shot? And it was, like, off the cuff, like a hip shot? Hip shot hip shot hip shot. Dana giggles and licks the inside of her shot glass and you wonder what it would be like to run your tongue slowly over her, one hip bone and over her navel and over the other hip. Dana gives you a hug and you both stumble to the floor and giggle at each other. You place your hand on her hip. She lets it stay there and closes her eyes.

Dana is dancing. She's wearing a t-shirt that's been cut off to reveal her flat tummy and a pair of plaid boxer shorts, riding low on her hips so low they almost rest beneath the small rise between her hips, barely nudging her belly button. She's got her eyes closed and she's rocking her hips back and forth, side to side, in slow seductive circles to mariah carey songs on her radio. She doesn't know you're watching, she thinks you're asleep on her kitchen floor but you woke up to the subtle thumb of bass to see Dana undulating her hips. You want to reach up, grab the hem of her boxer shorts and pull those hips to you, put your hands on them, rub your cheeks on them. One time when you were both drunk and giggling from taped seinfeld episodes played back at high-speed you rolled her onto her back, placed your hand on her stomach right below her ribs and put your left eye on her right hip, breathing down her hip and wondering if you're heart would stop beating from laughter and start beating from lust. Then when you moved to put your other eye on her other hip you forgot how drunk you both were and pressed too hard on her belly, she ooofed and you both laughed and eventually just fell asleep together on the floor. Now you want Dana to join you on the floor again, want her to place one hand on your chest and one on your hip and whisper the lyrics of the music into your ear. Dana finishes the song and sighs and places one hand on her hip as if thinking about something. She smiles and leaves the kitchen to take a shower.

You've washed Dana's hips in the shower, soaped up a washcloth and scrubbed her waist and her stomach for her, then dropped the cloth on her toes to rub your soapy hands over her hips, pressing the almost sharp edge into your palm and nuzzling your chin into her neck. Then you put your other hand on her other hip and she hugged you backwards until the water turned cold. When you dried her off you hung the towel on her hips and watched as she put up her hair, played with eyeliner, kissed a lipstick. She put on a bra, shrugged the towel off with one easy sway of her hips and donned underwear, a skirt, a peasant blouse that hid her hips. You were sorry to see them go. You were glad no one else would see them.