Drenched Dancing

The liquid limelights dazzle me. An abstract smile dances across my face-not a girl next door smile, not a cheesy, forced grin, but a lopsided widening of my mouth that reveals my mammoth teeth. The liquor in my chest seems to seep through my mouth and eyes and out into the world, swimming about in a unified, vibrational hum.

Sonder told me tonight was going to be low-key, but she knows I can never just have one drink. That’s why she picked me to party with and not the others. The second the sour bubbles of a vodka lime soda part my lips I’m in for the long haul. And she needs me tonight.

Zaraih had been her live-in partner for over a year. Yesterday, Sonder came home to a note which read:

My heart does not bleed for you anymore.

I found this note quite melancholy, and quite odd. Sonder thinks it’s just typical of Z. But beneath her frustration and petulance, is a broken heart. And I might not know the best way to heal one, but the best way to forget it's broken in the first place is with a strong alcoholic drink.

I’ve been waking up at 3:30 a.m. recently. Every day for the past two weeks. I try explaining this to Sonder but she must not think it’s unusual. I think it’s eerie that it’s the same time everyday. She thinks maybe my body has just gotten used to it and thinks it’s breakfast time.

Breakfast time. I sit in the booth with my drink-stained friend and fantasise about what I am going to eat at breakfast time. An image of baked beans on toast explodes into my head in a fantastical dance of belly’s delight. I can almost taste the little slimy beans if I open my mouth into a small circle shape and imagine them popping in there.

I write a note in my phone: Little beans. I’m confident I’ll remember what that means tomorrow.

A muscle-laden egg approaches our table, oozing with sticky, slick confidence. We’re repulsed, but he can’t imagine us not being into his augmented stature. I think he might make for quite a good inflatable pool toy.

“I did not expect to see such beautiful ladies here tonight,” he coos at us through tar-black teeth.

We both stare and don’t speak.

“What, are you shy? Come on, what’re your names?”

I think to myself that he better watch what he’s saying, but no words escape my lips. Sonder shuffles closer to me. Our ankles tap each others. The little matching bull tattoos we got on our gap year together dance beside one another. Whispering.

“We’re not shy. You’re just uninteresting,” Sonder chirps.

3, 2, 1…

Egg man disappears into thin air.

“I have to tell you something,” Sonder whispers sloppily in my ear.

“What is it?” I chant through slurred speech.

“Zaraih and I have never had sex.”

I’m not sure how to process this. My thoughts are not fluid anymore. They’re flowing in non-linear patterns, describing dreams.

“Was that a conscious choice?” I ask miraculously.

Sonder sighs, “No. We never even spoke about it. Not once.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay,” she says.

“Fireball,” I say.

“Wet pussy,” she says.

“Both,” we say.

We crawl over to the bar, which is shaking chaotically to the frequency of the universe. The vibrations shake through my legs and warm my teeth. The dance floor looks inviting, but I need a drink in my hand to be able to brave it. Another vodka lime soda charge appears on my bank balance. And a fireball shot. And a wet pussy.

My boots crunch over broken glass on the floor, and everything feels like ecstasy. The dance floor is wild and catastrophic. Sweat is dripping from the ceiling. And we are free.

A ballon appears in my mind. Perhaps it has replaced my brain. It stretches against my cranium, thin and fragile. It is yellow. The night is divine.

Sporadic black spots appear in front of my eyes. My body is tiring but my brain is on fire, ignited by the vibrations of the room. Sonder is missing. I think she’s in the bathroom.