you want to paint the underside of your coffin with glow in the dark stars so you’ve got something to look at. when you were in mass last sunday god spoke to you directly and asked you to please stop it. you’ve been trying to stop it.
she’s wearing a red dress that hugs her waist so tight that you picture your hands searching for your sanity somewhere in the folds of that body. between thighs like that. is this objectifying her? you worry to yourself, smashing lipstick on.
your head already hurts, and there’s a girl who is puking in the corner. you ask her if she needs anything, and she tells you she likes your dress, and you say thank you do you need water, and she says, it’s okay i’m going to die here, and you say, okay let me bring you water. so you bring her water, even though the other girls look nasty at you when you cut the line. it’s not for me, you try to explain, weakly, over bass that is breaking your eardrums. nobody likes a hero. the girl is surprised you’re back. she spits up daintily, almost neatly, and drinks the water in a single chug. she tells you to go back to partying, so you do, because she tells you to.
where the hell is your friend. it’s not like she promised she’d stay next to you but here you are and here she isn’t, which is either rude for both of you or just the average way of things.
nervous hands bring you back to the bar where at least you can linger and pout and think about god, and his hands, and the sun coming up tomorrow on the bones of your body. where if you keep your eyes down and don’t look up you won’t remember that all places of worship are churches and here you are, nursing a vodka tonic you finished five minutes ago, praying about hell while women cagedance not more than six yards from where you sit.
a man in a suit - an honest-to-god suit - comes up to you. the cloth is powder blue. he asks if you want a drink. you don’t. you say yes because your mother taught you not to turn down free things. he orders you something you don’t like and you lean across the bar and tell the bartender nicely that unless he wants you to die you will be drinking a shot of fireball and nothing else, thank you. the bartender says, i don’t want you to die.
you don’t say, okay, but, what if someone would finally let me die. that’s dark. that’s something you stow for your friend who has a good enough sense of humor.
you smile at the man, take the shot, wave at him, ask him to come dance, melt away into the crowd with that ability you learned somewhere in high school. now you’re alone again and can’t go back to the bar because the man will be looking. you remember you’ve got a phone finally.
you ask your friend where she is. she doesn’t reply coherently, but you like the addition of the cat emoji.
some terrible part of you slips into your skin now, the ache of wanting out. so you go out.
and there’s the girl in the red dress.
you feel yourself choke like a car engine and it’s gosh dang embarrassing.
she’s laughing, blowing smoke up at the building. a man is standing next to her, but she makes eye contact with you. you ask her if she’s willing to bum you one. you’ve never smoked in your life and you’re terrified of them like guns. she nods and slips you a clover. you don’t let your hands shake in the glow of the lighter, only after, only when she smiles at you and asks you how you’re doing.
how am i doing? i’m very lonely and i think god abandoned me and it feels like a train wreck inside me. i feel myself reversing. my headlights are going out. tomorrow already hurts.
instead you shrug and say something inconsequential. you say, that’s a nice dress. even manage to keep how hard your heart is pounding out of it.
isn’t it? asks the man. you now remember he’s here. you have the urge to smoke suddenly. inhale deeply.
sorry to bother you, you say, just got too loud in there.
she nods, looking at you, mouth in a pretty smile. not bothering, she says, it’s okay. want to go back in with me?
her outstretched hand is soft and cold. you drop the clover. once inside she shouts over the music to you about how men are creeps. her lip touches your ear while she speaks. her hand doesn’t leave yours. she pulls you to the dance floor. your heart feels like a carousel.
she dances. your throat is dry. she takes your other hand and makes you dance with her, a silly little twisting thing. your palms are sweaty and she is laughing. she leans in to speak with you, pressing up against your body. there is lightning shooting out over your skin. she smells like roses. her hair seems soft.
she’s whispering something and for a second, the sound of corroding stops in your brain. like the train finally derailed and now it’s dead and can leave you out of it. like stuff gets quiet even though you’re drunk in public on a friday night.
so this is worship, then, you think.
you say, sorry, and she says ? for what? and you can’t speak.
when she turns around, you leave.
