I ask the guy if his name is Ricardo. He nods. “Sure.” I ask for a gram, tell him Madison sent me. I pull my wallet out and hand over a fifty and two twenties. He asks the Eurotrash chick for her purse. She hands him a velvet bag by Anne Moore. Ricardo reaches in and hands me a tiny, folded envelope. Before I leave, the Eurotrash girl tells me she likes my gazelleskin wallet. I tell her I would like to tit-fuck her and then maybe cut her arms off, but the music, George Michael singing “Faith!” is too loud and she can’t hear me.
Back upstairs I find Patricia where I left her, alone at the bar, nursing a Perrier.
“Listen, Patrick,” she says, her attitude relenting. “I just want you to know that I’m_____”
“A bitch? Listen, do you want some coke?” I shout, cutting her line off. “Uh, yeah... Sure.” She is wildly confused. “Come on.” I yell, taking her hand. She puts her drink down on the bar and follows me through the deserted club, up the stairs toward the rest rooms. There’s really no reason why we couldn ́t do it downstairs but that seems tacky and so we do most of it in one of the men’s room stalls. Back outside the men’s room I sit on a couch and smoke some of her cigarettes while she goes downstairs to get us drinks. She comes back apologizing for her behavior earlier this evening. “I mean I loved Barcadia, the food was outstanding, and that mango sorbet, ohmygod I was in heaven. Listen, it’s OK that we didn’t go to Dorsia. We can always go some other night and I know that you probably tried to get us in but it’s just so hot right now. But, oh yeah, I really loved the food at Barcadia. How long has it been open? I think it’s been there three, four months. I read a great review in New York or maybe it was Gourmet...”
          

Excerpt from the novel American Psycho (1991) by Bret Easton Ellis.