"Now that," he said, with an unneeded flourish, "is a good line."
He starts with her lower back, a safe place for an idle hand at rest. It moves up and over, to the right, sneaking over to a more rewarding location.
She's not noticing. Rolling the dollar is the hardest part, with the line right there, all crushed and ready, and her fingers just don't cooperate.
While she fumbles with the banknote his hand keeps moving, covering the satiny material of the fancy dress at a slow methodical pace.
It's rolled up finally, and she can snort the line. The big, fat, heavenly, virginal white line. When she bends over his hand covers the last distance and it's at the predetermined destination.
While he enjoys the soft, squishy feel of her breast she snorts up the purist coke she has ever had in her life.
And then she knows that everything will be okay.