80s Revolution
Everybody's dancing. It's only 8:30 p.m. Maybe it’s the Triple sec, maybe it's the guitar rift. I swore I wouldn't go to Long Island to quench my thirst. But what the hell, you're only born once a decade.
Back in time. My kind of style. Bare shoulders. Asymmetrical crop tops. Neon colors. Workout gear without the work. Shorts that glow in the dark. Every face in spotlight cos at that time everyone was a star. Truly, truly outrageous.
Everybody's dancing. It's only 8:30 p.m. Maybe it’s the Triple sec, maybe it's the guitar rift. I swore I wouldn't go to Long Island to quench my thirst. But what the hell, you're only born once a decade.
Everyone's dancing. A tool skirt in converse. Denim vests and butterfly belts. Black stockings. Lime green leg warmers. A boxy auntie rocks out at right angles. So she thinks she can dance. She smiles, touches my shoulder, and I cheer her on.
I wanna move but I need room to spin. Dancing like a queen requires caution. Hopefully, this time, I won't break up a marriage. I move through the rhythm, swaying in my seat as I cut my salmon. Whitney comes on and I wanna dance with somebody. I look to my guy, swaying, smiling and singing along. He comes alive here. It reminds me why we go where we go, why do what we do, even if it keeps us from keeping up with the fabulous folk. I match his rhythm and he becomes my somebody.
I can't hear myself think. I can't hear myself think? I can't hear myself think! The bass hijacks me, Morse code sent directly to my soul. I feel colors now. Electric yellow. Purple rain. Magenta Lime. The bluest of blues.
We got the beat. We don't stop believing. One more song. Encore!
Café Blanca
She had hair white as smoke and just as billowy. It was shaved on the sides, an aesthetic held over from her punk days. Given her age, she likely originated the trend. Dressed all in black, her lines were sleeker than they had any business being on a Saturday morning.
She had hair white as smoke and just as billowy. It was shaved on the sides, an aesthetic held over from her punk days. Given her age, she likely originated the trend. Dressed all in black, her lines were sleeker than they had any business being on a Saturday morning. Small but thick gold hoops hung from her ears. Her skin was taught, but cracks splintered from the eyes. Her cheeks, tinged pale pink, formed a notable crease on either side of the nose. Her lips weren't plump, they weren't thin; they held the remnants of a sadness that had tugged on their corners. Her eyebrows were black and sharply drawn, like a patient Vulcan. Her lashes were just as jet; reaching towards the light, they were a Dionaea muscipula enveloping her eyeballs like a common housefly.
She held her coffee amidst the clamor of the café. She sipped and sipped and sipped, looking ahead, not out a window or into a crowd of faces. Her eyes settled somewhere beyond the wall of time.
She got up and made her way across the room. She leaned across a table in the corner, occupied by a quartet of gruffer faces. Her clutch stayed behind, open, its innards of paper and plastic exposed. Next to it laid a single key anchored by the fob of an Aston Martin. Her coffee cooled. Unattended. Alone. No one paid them any mind.