Between the gaps in this circle, sits all the other versions of us that didn't make the cut tonight. We pass the bottle from one mouth to the next, and with it some of the pain. I get goosebumps from having to hear daring dreams. We laugh, not just at the joke, but at our flimsy freedom of the hour. We half-wish someone would walk in and ask us to keep it down. Oppression was familiar. Freedom wasn't. The yellow bulb that hangs from the ceiling burns my eye-lids and I let it. This yellow bulb will now represent the evening. 10 years from now, the joke or the name of the girl beside me won't be remembered but only the yellow bulb.
