I do remember a few things. The lights changed from sapphire to magenta and the music pounded our ears. Cool tones from B flat arpeggios rocked our hips left and right, right and left, then back again. Amidst the fuss and static of it all, she grabbed my hip and detected our similarity. “White people” dancing is a sign of togetherness and supposedly made room for small talk. The blacks in my eyes dilated and the drink’s milky froth spilled over our shoes. L.A. Water. She asked if I was “religious” and I told her the truth. The loudness of it crossed my mind, but I couldn’t escape the flashlight and the debased floor mop. It grew hotter and hotter, until we left that floor. Outside and across the street showed the giant martini glass with a cadmium yellow underline. The stars hid from the night, and our group of seven walked through the alley and onto the asphalt. Our ride was waiting. On the seat in the van, my sweater laid. It was electric blue. Still is.
Christopher Uller
