The Culture of Hooking Up

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Whatever people are smoking outside is following them inside the nightclub, leaving a trail of fog that wraps around bodies and trickles over heads. I feel like I'm starting to get high off the secondhand fumes. Not high enough to be numb to a hand grabbing my ass as I continue to elbow my way in and out of the crowd. The first time, I chalked it up to the fact that it's too crowded to even hide under the stairs, but after two more times, I pretend to be intoxicated enough to "accidentally" fall back into the person and pierce their foot with the pointy bottom of my heel. I even throw in an airy laugh and high-pitched apology as I dig my weight into it, waiting for them to wince, before pushing forward again.

     I would park myself by one of the bars, preferably the left one, like I usually do, but the line has been endless, one after another, after another, the same way the entrance and exits have been. I'm almost tempted to find a wall, slide down, and stop, drop, and roll out of here, but I'm afraid the floor is just as polluted as the air.

I cram my way up the stairs, waving my hand in front of my face as I go, because the air seems to only get the slightest bit heavier and the slightest bit thicker. It's only by throwing my upper body over the rail that I feel like I'm finally breathing in fresher air. It's still definitely borrowed air, but at least feels cleaner.

The dance floor looks more like a slow moving herd of cattle as people shuffle a little to one side and then over to the other without any true purpose nor any inclination for the beat pulsing out of the speakers.

My eyes dance around, looking for nothing particular, but it doesn't take long for my eyes to trail after a guy wearing a black button up dress shirt with bright pink flamingos on it. The pattern is stark against both the strobing lights as well as the shadows in between. If that's not enough, his dark hair is flopping around with each floppy step he takes as he ducks around and sidesteps through the crowd. When he reaches the edge of the dance floor, he flings his head back and looks up. Of course, he looks up. He's the only one that takes the time to glance up. I want to say that's because that's just what he does. He looks up because the glass is always half full, or at least the glass is never empty, but really, I'm only kidding myself because those eyes land right on me, like magnets, no lollygagging in between. Oh, and then there's that smile—that damn million dollar smile that breaks out across his face—even as his shoulders are bumped and shoved.

Of course, it also only takes another beat for him to turn and start heading towards the stairs. My eyes ping pong around for a second as I debate about ducking back into the crowd because it's been two weeks—a two week streak—and finals are coming up, and the semester is almost over, and I still have to finish my paper, and the last thing I need is Jack. The last thing I need is Jack to walk right up to me when the last time I saw him he was walking away. The last thing I need is another last time when I finally, sort of, not really, came to terms with the last time being the last time.

But of course, the crowd seems to part for him. I want to say it's because he's a guy, or the pattern of his shirt easily catches people's eyes, but I know it's also a lie. It's really just a downright annoying irony of life.

I go back go plan B, pulling myself away from the railing and backing up into the wall. I don't even check behind me. My eyes lock with his as he continues to stride forward, while I continue to slowly step back.

He's the one that ends up tripping, though, another irony, but it's one that I appreciate, as he stumbles over someone else's feet at first before just stumbling over his own. My eyebrows are raised when he looks back up. It's too bad that I forget to keep walking because all it takes is three more strides for him to finally reach me.