“I don’t want to go,” I said, irritated, into the mirror, whilst simultaneously applying subtle, brisk coats of
mascara onto my thin, black, nearly non-existent eyelashes.
“You will have fun, don’t worry, and if you don’t, we could always just take a cab home,” Siobhan said
with a small smirk.
“You know very well that I’d rather sit in bed, lemon-ginger tea in hand, reading Kafka on the Shore until
twelve forty-five in the morning, and go to sleep, soundly and safely in my warm bed,” I said, turning my
head to look at her, bulky mascara wand still in hand.
“Yes, I do know that that is something you’d rather be doing, but you and I both know that you need to
shake up that tiny triangle of a comfort zone of yours, and go out! Have the best time of your life, and
meet new people.”
“Yeah, or the worst time,” I said with a sheepish grin.
I took a few steps back, examining myself in the mirror. Dark skin that glowed in the blinding, but
warm-toned lights that surrounded the robust white mirror frame, dark eyes, the shape of two brown
almonds, that had a hint of golden glitter speckled on their hooded eyelids, and a soft swipe of hardly
visible black eyeliner, and dark hair that had relaxed curls cascading down my back, thick and full of
volume, smelling like fresh oats. I was wearing a faded band t-shirt of a band I had previously never heard
of or even listened to; Van Halen. I later found out, they were a band popular in the early 1970s for their
hard, metallic rock. They were known for restoring the ‘real’ or ‘true’ essence of rock music back to
liberal America. Banging drums, guitars being smashed on stage, big hair, flared blue velvet pants. The
shirt, in itself was a dark gray, with bits of fraying thread at the sleeves and the end of the shirt. The
middle part had their faces on it, although moderately disfigured and slowly wearing away, just like hard,
heavy rock. It fit just right on my body, which normally I found very uncomfortable, as I would normally
wear shirts that were two sizes too big, to hide my, what I thought were abnormally large breasts and
petite bloated lower belly. Today, I was feeling good, maybe even great; I liked the size of my breasts,
and my lower belly was now toned and invisible in the shirts I wore. Paired with that, I wore a pair of
slightly flared acid-wash jeans and a black belt with silver hardware. The hardware on my belt matched
the hardware on my bag and on my ears and on my neck. All silver, shining calmly in the iridescent glow
of the light.
“The cab’s here!” Siobhan exclaimed from the living room.
“Yeah, coming,” I said silently, knowing that she couldn’t have heard me.
We were headed to a small shack of a bar in a neighborhood I had often visited as a kid, and now, it was
something of a distant memory to me. The protective, rough banyan trees that covered the grounds and
kept me cool with shade were bulldozed and replaced with industrialized bigotry; tall and monstrous
cement buildings growling at me with their off-white splotches of chipping paint and gargantuan holes for
windows. At night, and even in the early hours of the night, everything was unrecognizable and alien to
me. Almost frightening. The motherly banyan trees were no longer there to brush my once plump cheeks
with their soft and fragile leaves, as I slept under their large head of pea-green asymmetrical hair or laid
against their robust and steady earth-colored bark as I read each and every children’s chapter book from
the nearby second-hand library.
I paid the cab driver, left the car, walked into the compact box of a bar. The signs out front were neon and
blinding, pointing in all directions with brightly colored arrows as if I were in an elaborately sketched out
labyrinth; not knowing where to turn or what to do. A cool and subtle breeze blew from the overhead fan
and six miniature air-cons placed in specific spots strategically around the room was encircling the
one-story, one-room bar in a soft current of calm and fresh air. Siobhan was already on her third shot of
some concoction of liquid strawberry flavoring, mixed with a putrid-smelling unnamed vodka from the
outskirts of Moscow, ten minutes into us being there. Talking to some hunk with a strong jaw and arms
too muscular to possibly even wedge its way between corners, she flipped her long auburn hair subtly, put
her fingers to her lips, slightly picking at the skin there, and was completely captivated by this
six-foot-something of a man, overpowering her small frame.
After having a few lime-flavored, unnecessary shots of my own, I decided to wander. I found myself
leaving through the narrow back door of the bar and out onto the elongated street that lay ahead of me. It
was lit brightly with streetlights every five meters, that spit a glaring white light onto the entire street. I
walked farther down the street, away from the white noise of the bar, and noticed ever so contently that
the power lines made small buzzing noises like a conglomeration of twenty-one flies surrounding a
decaying, thick, what used to be a rich and creamy chocolate cake. The alcohol amplified my senses and
made me feel, and maybe even see things I didn’t want to see. I seemed to be walking for a little over
twenty minutes when I found myself sitting on a grimy and grotesque pavement, with only a few cars on
the main road, staring at the sky. There were no stars that night. Only water-colored clouds that moved
slowly through the tart blackness of the night sky. I didn’t know what I was doing, or merely where I was,
but I felt serene, maybe even wholly peaceful for the first time in a long time. Floating through the rest of
the night, finding myself at the park I lay down in the coarse mix of prickly soil and comforting grass that
tickled every inch of my body. I lay there silently, fingers slightly fiddling with the minuscule fronds of
wet grass, eyes closed, almost dreaming.
I awoke to the sound of music, lightly throbbing in my head. Not an agitating or vehemently painful
pound, but a somewhat melodic and rhythmic pulse. I turned my head slightly to the left, and sitting a few
meters away from me was a group of boys, most probably my age, playing this same music into a
portable, red speaker. One of them noticed me and started walking steadily toward me. I got up slowly,
not threatened or nervous, or even remotely scared that a person I didn’t know was coming my way. I
couldn’t see his face; it was beautifully covered by the seamless shadows that surrounded the sky. After a
few moments, his face was revealed in the dim, cool light. He seemed familiar to me like I could pick his
face straight from a crowd. His face radiated a solemn sense of reassurance and patience. He too, looked
at me as if he recognized me. Eyebrows slightly arched in a soft confused manner, pink lips parted and
chapped ever so slightly. Eyes dark and somber, speaking to me, almost telepathically. Maybe it’s the
alcohol and the lateness of the night, but I feel a connection, a spark if you will. Cliche butterflies encircle
my body, and I see them surrounding him. We are stood one meter apart, not speaking, just glaring. A
delicate glare, understanding one another and conversing through our soft stares. I don’t want to break the
delicate rose-colored glass of this encounter apart, by ruining it with my words. The silence is divine, the
spoken word will discreetly sneak inside and crush this plush, pink dream we are living.
