The music is louder than your voice and you keep your jacket on all night. As we speak, sweat trails along your temples and you dab your neck with a tissue. Your shirt underneath is ornate like a curtain. Share the pattern. Why be shy of perspiring? It’s the way of the dance floor. Talking to you makes me want to pick my own pockets, pour whiskey and lemonade down my throat and throw ice cubes at the grimy men in the DJ booth. If you get any closer, I’ll just move aside so you can stand where I stood.
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