My back is pressed firmly against the whitewashed brick wall. Converse clad right foot up, it slowly taps along to a yet to be revealed beat. Both thumbs barely inserted into my acid-washed-jean pockets, my head nods responsively. I’m lit by a seemingly blinding light filtered through venetian blinds. A fan spins somewhere out of sight – making my bangs blow as if a storm was slowly approaching.
Then, the music fades in. Javier Dunn’s “Couple of Drinks” is soundtracking the scene — god it’s the fucking epitome of cool. Seeing this – two ladies in high-waisted jeans flank me, running their fingers though my perfectly brushed bouffant.
“So far.” I whisper in the lady-to-the-right’s ear. Her knees get weak.
I turn my head and just mouth “So good,” in the ear of the other. She grabs the waistline of my pants and pulls me away from the wall.
We begin a carefully choreographed dance and the light fades. Elbows loose, hands wave. Knee against knee. I dip.