Nightmarish figures with razor-sharp dyed hair and painted faces step on our toes with edgy heels and string their pearly beads around our necks in attempt to suck us into their empty shells. She rests an elbow against the flower bed behind her (the flowers withered into dust over the rough granite rocks) until the man in the suit lowers his sunglasses down the bridge of his wide nose and tells her to stop. "Am I that heavy?" she asks underneath droopy, drunken eyelashes, a provocative pout distorting her lips. He laughs flirtatiously but I can't help but think to myself - yes, lady, you are that heavy, despite your bony figure and sickly face. You are heavy with contempt for me and my company, not because we're prettier (we are not) but because we are young. Because the man in the suit does not hesitate to let us in. Because we are holding hands and pretending to talk about our 'others' while our eyes exchange prohibited glances.
In we go under ridiculously hard to say fake names. I follow my friend in, hands still clutched, and enter the elevator that will lead us way down into place where right and wrong merge into a single mass of smiles, bodies, laughter, sweat, tears, alcohol, music, and filthy money. We are the only ones in the elevator, silently standing face to face with deranged ideas in our minds while we clutch its opposing metal walls for support. My knees bend for a flash of a second with pure desire and so do yours. The doors open, sliding a blade of noise and conversation through the moment we just shared. We shake our heads clear and blink it all away. You take my hand and I can walk again.
The place feels wrong. The idea of it colapses in our minds like a firework that didn't go off; instead, the lights and the fire and the loud bang reside in between our silky warm hands, still helt tight. You are in a whole different level of drunk so I have no idea if I'm just imagining things. I can't possibly be - I am the sober one here... aren't I?
And then you look at me and ask me to lead the way. You feel as lost and out of place as I do and, as a consequence, start blabbing away about your 'others' and this place's 'potentials'. But, once again, your hand gives your true thoughts away. Your thumb circles the back of my hand and your fingers tickle my knuckles almost imperceptively. Your hand shifts and rearranges itself in mine repeatedly and I know it's not because you haven't found a comfortable position yet - you are feeling the contours of mine in yours, unfamiliar and dangerous in your head. Your eyes widen and change color and you ask me if I want to leave. I say yes.
Strangers approach us at different times and with different intentions while we stand in line. Our eyes meet and both of us are impressed. You patiently wait for me while I yell at the men in the dark suit, and for a split second, the tension is waved off and all there is is our shared laughter. I'm finally released from the confines of that miniature hell and we are together once again, in our no-longer-necessary hand-holding.
But then the night air slaps us both cold and sober and we let go. I smoke and shift in my feet while you complain about life and we are no longer in sync. I take awkward drags while you watch my lips close around the cigarette. Your mouth twitches and I'm scared of what we're about to fall into, so I toss the cigarette away a bit theatrically and smile at you; "I'm ready to go," I say.
I can't not notice how our legs and feet touch in the cab. Once again, we are talking about the strangers in our lives - the beautiful but pathetically empty shells of people we wished we could fall in love with. We share dirty stories in a language the driver doesn't understand, with code-words and slang no one but us know. And then we're there. You lean in for a quick kiss and our cheeks snap with a tiny electrical aftershock of all the delirious moments we managed to come across on our night out by ourselves.
This, my friend, is what happens when we're not surrounded by the usual crowd of secondary characters. I'm scared. Everyone knows we've got particularily fearsome reputations - you are the earthquake, I'm the tornado. We will rip each other to shreds.
*
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