Everything goes smoothly. You buy your tickets, each of you on her own Platinum Master Card. It's tempting to fly first class but you resist the urge. Your name is now Lorelei Morgan -- and already you can barely recall your original one -- and Susi's is Susi Starr, and you both sign them for the credit card transactions as if you've been signing them that way all along.
You go through Security with no problem, head for the gate, board. All along, men stare at you both with unbridled lust. A few try to start up conversations, but you both politely snub them. On the plane, each of you has two of those tiny airline bottles of white Zinfandel, even though neither one of you has had much more than a taste of alcohol before. If anything, the wine seems a bit too sweet, as if you're used to something more upscale and less sugary -- how much has the powder changed you two? Are you completely different people now, somewhat sophisticated Vegas showgirls for real rather than two teenage girls?
It's a direct flight. Once off the plane and into the concourse, you take out and look at your driver's license: there's a Vegas address on it. Susi's has the same address. "Should we just go there and see if it's where we live, Lori?" asks Susi. Only now do you remember -- if it can be called remembering -- that people call you Lori for short.
"Might as well, Susi," you say. You have no luggage to pick up. You go to the taxi stand near the baggage claim and hire a cab to the address on your licenses. The cab takes you down oddly familiar roads -- though neither of you has been in Vegas before -- to a little housing development just off one of the freeways, all small houses and duplexes.
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