Thursday....

I lean back against the back of the uncomfortable bar stool, feet propped up on the rail, and wonder why am I here. The music batters its way to my ears. This early in the evening it's mostly Goth-trance, very interesting but not my favorite to dance to. The crowd is still thin, not even enough to pose a challenge when heading for the rest rooms, but it won't be long till it's half impossible to move. Smoke curls through the air. I cough,uncomfortable, but not brave enough to ask the person down the bar to breath the other way. Again the thought wanders briefly through my mind that there is nothing here worth tomorrow's scratchy throat and stinking clothes. Bright strobes assault my eyes, blinding me for moments. I am suprised by the intensity of my feelings at these moments. I know that soon my friends will be here, and I know that I always end up having fun, but it seems every week, I sit perched in this same place, wishing I was somewhere else.
I lean forward, chin propped in hands, elbows balanced on the bar top. I watch the writhing dancers twist and turn under the many hued disco ball. One girl, long blonde hair pinned carelessly to her crown, gestures violently as she dances. Always she moves gracefully, but with hands balled into fists. I am momentarily mezmerized by the incongruous combination of movements. My eye is captured away by the entrance of a new player. Gloves, fanny pack, long black and white striped scarf and heavy rimmed, black plastic sunglasses; Eighties Guy steps onto the floor armed to party as though it's 1989. His sheer audacity at wearing such an incredibly Archaic style never ceases to amaze me. He stands strangly anachronistic amid the fishnet lace and black leather Goths.
I sigh and jiggle the ice in my drink splashing my fingers with sticky soda. The waitress ghosts by, eying the level of liquid I have left. Apparently not enough to warrant her attention. I lick my fingertips of to prevent the sticky from spreading, they're syrupy sweet, almost bitingly so. Mournfully I peer at the cherry stem in the ashtray, wishing i had another marachino to munch on. I could go. If I left now no one would know I had been there. I could be home in my blankets in meer minutes. I smile wryly at my inner self, knowing I'll stay. I always do.
An arm sneaks up from behind me, warm against my back. My smile changes to a grin. Suddenly I'm happy to be here. I turn into the hug and begin my night out on the town.