Neons signs. Slow blinking,like a new born deer, stepping into the light. The headlights from passing cars diffused through the rain. Your hair clinging to your lipstick-stained mouth. The palinospic stutter of the world after three whiskey sours. The nervous smoothing of skirts on a windy street. Too loud voices, attuned to the roar of music and alcohol, that echo in the silent streets. Unsteady selfies, light smeared in a time-lapse accident; faces blurry, smiles radiant. The reverberation of laughter, like a handfuls of pennies tossed into a well.
Another bar. Pulling stray dollar bills from your stocking, your bra, the waistband of your skirt. Linking hands to navigate the human miasma. Black light disco and tight white shirts. The arched brows of a stranger. Vanilla-flavored condoms in the restroom vending machine. The slender fingers of a stranger. Strobes. Mirror balls. A thousand points of light, like a starry night, or the moon on the water, or an eighth grade dance. The flat, muscular plane of a stranger’s back. A stirring in your belly. The bow of your best friend’s lips. Her hand on your wrist, pleading, let’s go.
The taste of whiskey sours. The stain of her lipstick on your lips. The breathless, dizzy time lapse of a kiss. An ache that never goes away.
All Your Crooked Heart 