Goth Night

The arches of my feet ached from an hour of standing on concrete. I shifted from side to side to calm them, roughly in time with the dissonance that a furtive Google told me was Lebanon Hanover, and sipped my Fireball and Coke, trying to ignore the sweat forming in my exposed armpits. A cracked door a room away let in the stench of cigarette smoke from the parking lot, but kept out the October chill that might have made the club a bit more bearable.

This had not been the wisest choice. I should've stayed in and played Genshin, or at least not worn the Femboy Hooters tank top.

In an attempt to overcome my wallflower tendencies, I had migrated to the edge of the dance floor, and I found myself desperately missing the safety of the dirty wall as pseudo-goths filtered past, each bump pushing me further towards the cursed square where extroverts and drunks held sway. One such reveler was in front of me, black collared shirt escaping from a pair of Wranglers with each flick of his hips as he danced. I pushed away a pang of envy.

I was halfway through my drink when I realized that I had begun nodding my head to whatever darkwave they were playing. My hair drifted in front of my eyes and I felt my foot slide onto the floor.

As the night progressed, I edged further and further onto the floor before eventually finding myself fully immersed in the crowd, watery soda and liquor jumping up two skinny straws as I pulsed in time with the music. My right hand held my cup, my left hand sat squarely in my pocket, and one eye flicked to the go-go dancer at my right. I eyed her tip bucket and fiddled with my wallet, but stayed in place, feet frozen to the concrete.

It was late when I retrieved my now-smoky coat and walked back to my car, and I contemplated the night as the Wisconsin breeze chilled the sweat on my skin.

Could've gone worse.