Not me, but the characters in a short piece I’m working on.
The cab dropped them off at Holla’s, the nightclub’s name written in white and blue neon on the building’s side. Before they even got in the door they could hear the thump-thump-thump heartbeat of the music pounding through the walls and windows. Inside the drinks were two-for-one, and the DJ–a woman with a pate shaved down to downy stubble, huge black sunglasses, and the reddest lips Peter had ever seen–played techno jams that thudded like jungle drums, calling everyone to the dance floor. The club smelled of perfume and sweat, pheromones and spilled beer.
The beat got to him, got into him, and he let himself be dragged by the hand to the black-and-white chessboard dancefloor. Ellen was a little awkward at the start–he wondered how long it’d been since she’d been out dancing–but as the night wore on she found her groove. She pulled her hair free of her ponytail and shook her head, hard, in time with the pulse of bass and drums. Her hair became a mane, and she was a wild animal, hips shaking, hands in the air like she just didn’t care.
At one point, Peter remembered sitting at a table with Ellen and a couple they’d just met, a blond college kid with an unlit smoke hanging out of the corner of his mouth and a dark-haired girl with a low-cut top and enormous breasts held in check by some combination of good fortune, magic, and an architectural marvel of a brassiere. He could feel sweat trickling down his ribcage, down the back of his neck. He picked up his bottle of Budweiser and pressed it to his forehead, and sighed at the chill. His muscles ached and he couldn’t seem to stop smiling.
So does it paint a picture? I sure hope so…
On the MP3 player: RV by Faith No More…
Would anybody tell me if I was gettin’ stupider?