Her lips are sticky red.
I watch them as she says,“Mhm,I don’t buy a word of that, but I ain’t gonna pry. Just take the edge off, aight? Sip somethin’. Don’t gotta get fucked up, but it’ll relax you.” She slaps the bar. “Yo, bartender—vodka soda, lime. For my girl right here. The sexy Cuban hurricane with the hot-and-hostile face.”
My head drops back with a laugh as my elbows lean against the bar.
The laugh is real. I think.
But I’ve lied to myself so well,
I can’t tell the difference.
I shut my eyes as the music takes over.
If I’m lucky, it’ll smother the version of me aching to be held by him again.
The bass licks up my spine,
looking for somewhere to bury itself.
I feel it vibrate under my boots,
rattle secrets out of my bones.
If I could sit here with the bass in my chest in an empty room? That would be close to peace.
I turn to Celie. She’s throwing back her second shot with her eyes on the DJ.
You don’tseeDJ Crush unless you’re looking for him. You only know he’s here because youfeelthe way the room changes when he’s behind the booth.
Black hoodie. Jeans slim and shredded at the knees. Sleeves pushed to his elbows. Veins wrapped around his forearms. Hood up. Cap low. Face half-shadowed, hiding from the things he’s making you feel. Eyes uncatchable.
He doesn’t make eye contact unless he’s about to make you feel like the only person in the world. And then he looks away, like it never happened.
He doesn’t dance or perform.
He doesn’t speak often,
but when he does, it’s static wrapped in sex.
He plays songs that hurt?—
slow builds,
bass drops tied to your worst memory.
And when the beat hits,
he watches the crowd fall apart for him.
The mic crackles once before he says,
“This mix is for the apology you’ll never get.
“So scream through it.”
Then just before the beat drops,
a second of silence.
