White Tile

This is a scene that I wrote out in the middle of the night a few years ago and to this day I have no idea what to do with it. I've tried several contexts, but none of them seemed to work so I'll just have to give you the fragment. Sorry it ends at just the right spot.

The cool smooth hard tiles were a comfort against her skin. She was flush, almost feverish, and a sheen of perspiration still tingled with each stroke of breath. Her nausea was appeased for now, but a hint of it in the pit of her churning stomach produced enough fear of moving to be content to lie upon the soothing floor for just a bit longer. She lay on her side leaving her limbs sprawled out in whatever position they had fallen and her head half on the base of the toilet and half on the floor so that the right side of her face was tilted in a way that allowed the tile to make contact with the entire length of her cheek.
She closed her eyes and regretted coming across such a lethal combination. The evening had been one part gin and one part vodka and several parts she couldn’t remember. Then moments began to step into her mind and they were met with a physical response similar to nausea; her stomach began to flood with bits of embarrassment with each recollection.
The bass pulsed through the floor though there was no noise. They danced in twos and circles and by now the floor was sticky and scraped and scarred. She had danced until she couldn’t tell if she was moving anymore, until she couldn’t stop moving.
She said something she knew to be painful and, in a normal state of mind, would horrify her to say and thus had never said it until this strange and regretful moment.