The bar glows amber and gold. Glasses clink like distant bells. You could let something warm slide down your throat. Wine is tradition. Whiskey is penance. You imagine the burn, the way it might quiet the choir in your head, the one that sings of flesh and sacrament. But you know better. You know the burn you seek waits at the end of your night. You order a simple club soda and
You take a lap. The dance floor opens like a sea parting. Movement might distract you. Movement might guide you. You pass close enough to inhale the scent of skin, aftershave, and desire. You are good at listening. You are good at finding the ones on the edges. The ones like you, desperate for connection. A moment of something human.
A man brushes your hand as he passes. Accidental. Or not.
Your stomach tightens but not with disgust, not with shame. With anticipation; want almost. You stare at him as he offers a soft smile of apology. He’s warm and tall, like some sort of deity meant to guide you to the light. Such a shame, you think.
You smile back. It is a gentle, pastoral smile. The kind that is meant to forgive. The kind that is meant to bless.
He takes you in, a look up and down, standing still in the mass of crowded bodies.
Waiting.