May your ears hum on the drive home

Her cigarette flailed around mimicking the convulsions of loud, thrashing music. The girl in the stripes and tights kicked her legs in some joyous tantrum of successful revolt against the air or everything or just that moment, right then.

The man with the hat held up his whiskey bottle, murmuring, shouting and nodding in agreement with the sound. He stood too close to the drummer, and we all felt a little uncomfortable. He didn't hear us when we said "ahem" in unison with slanted looks through the hair in our eyes.

There you were, hoodied and bearded in front of me. Even with all that space you still managed to invade mine, nearly clocking me one, all while I was tapping away, toe pointed out, hands in pockets, trying to look real fuckin' cool. I would have deserved it.

Yes, last night, I dodged punches, but they were the sort of happy fists people make when they want to jump up and down to a noise they enjoy. I made conversation, which was fruitful and dynamic. I also made eyes across the room, which were a little less deserving of those two adjectives.