The meeting was for nine; I pulled into the parking lot at eight forty-five. I was listening to some classic French pop songs on a CD. I turned the music down and looked around at the mostly empty parking lot. I wondered if the club was open? I looked up at the red and blue lights highlighting the name on the surface of the wall high above me. Another car pulled up to park, but, I didn’t see anyone get out.
So I waited. I was looking for your new white car, but wasn’t sure if you were coming in your husband’s black truck. I looked around the lot. I combed my hair while looking in the rear view mirror. I think you said I needed two inches cut off when we were on the noisy dance floor last week. I had ear plugs in, and just nodded. My mother was always telling me to ‘get a haircut!’ So, I’m used to the admonition.
I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. I was thinking that I haven’t had any sexual adventures this summer compared to the summer of 2015. But I’ll let that be ‘more mystery, and less history’ for now. This season it’s the bland leading the bland. Or, is it ‘let them eat fake?’
I love being lost on the dance floor and getting into the music and not thinking of some of the hum drum aspects of everyday drudge. To float on sounds on a grey tile floor with flashing lights and …an ‘I forgot what I was going to say’ moment. Or “I forgot what I was worrying about” coming into consciousness like an epiphany. Religion may be the opiate of some people, but some of us act like ‘shakers’ to get that divine feeling.
The clock struck nine, and I saw people head toward the door. A woman went by in clickety-clack high heels. So, I went inside to find you.