Saturday, June 14, 2003

Velvet Rope- Part II

Hemmed and hawed, the rhombus figure diffuses, shilly-shallying amid two hordes so close yet, worlds apart. Marooned by the discotheque personnel and fellow patrons, the anxious four ardently grow distant from the point they so wanted to be near, the velvet rope. Enticed by the fruitful offering, they stride towards a more blissful rapture, the bar.

A game plan is enacted, one pair charges towards booze heaven while the other duo stash the coats for the price of half a drink. At las, hands free of leather goods and occupied by precipitating glasses, relaxation engulfs them. Simpering from the feat of landing destination, sighs of contentment are exhaled. Only to be followed by inhales of combusting tobacco.

Drinks dwindling down, final swigs are tossed back so that an encore may take place. With a limited selection at the smoke permissive, al fresco bar, shots are forced. Salted wrists are licked, chins fly up, and emerald citrons are pierced by shrill incisors. Bis for the carousing soldiers. Feeble tolerance onlookers gape with scrunched mugs. Less than a few drags left before the butts start losing their letters. Final puffs are drawn by the loaded and spirited before proceeding to the ring of feigned hoofers.

Move, groove, swirl, twirl, booty-shake ‘til the body aches. Stilettos wobble as the lasses flare their arms, stoop their bodies and lean towards nearby bosoms. In spite of the music continuing to pulsate to the thud of the bass, sharp shimmies digress to a melodic movement. Fatigued figures exchange cues of exhaustion, glances at the time and coil closer together. Suddenly, a prospect restores strength.

Tall and estranged, the brute stature shoots a fleeting look. Drink in one hand, the other in the pocket, steadily rocking to and fro. Reacting instinctively, hands are cupped from one’s mouth to another’s ear, forming a halo. Murmurs of the eye-candy are muttered until all look over in choreographed motion. The simultaneous head whips and hair flips create a tumult of ruby-red chagrins. Lashes bat, half-smiles emit, jowls bow. Nothing extends beyond this. The picturesque slicker wanes into the mob. The halo severs and succeeds into an indestructible chain weaving its way under the metallic revolving ball, past the vinyl spinning discs.

Sweat dawdles before the ears. Temples are dabbed as the pie-eyed girls mosey over to the paper-less, puke-full lavatory to be greeted by a line equitable to the one of the snap tap. Relinquishing to her bladder, a brave filly disregards the gender-labeled doors and enters the one without a skirt. Feeling like she hacked into the restrictive urinal system, she smirks as she parts her way through the line of leg-crossed girls.

Flashing false smiles, chuckling with effort, she mingles with the singles. Trite conversations of geographical backgrounds, educational accomplishments and occupational statuses are swapped. Leaning forward and rising on the tips of her toes she blares to the fellow that she must visit the ladies room.

Meandering solo amongst the tired lushes, she stumbles into the same elusive figure whom dimmed his way off the floor. Pardons are graced as they persist in opposing directions. She jolts. She considers the possibility of the foreigner being just as timid, if not more. Her inhibitions grow increasingly wary then, the notorious bawl of last call. She succumbs to her desire to uphold her self-initiated promise to fraternize with the unknown. She takes two steps back as he rewardingly takes two forward. They smile, they blush. All that was needed was a stack of papers plummeting to the floor, scattering everywhere so that the gentleman could assist her in gathering them resulting in the bumping of heads leading to a voluntarily blinded kiss. Or, a milkshake to be smudged on the barely there, fuzz of a fruit, mustache so that the girl could graze her thumb across it, before they ever-so-slowly plant lips on lips. Instead, in synchronized waves, they slant forward, backward, forward, backward physically debating on who should speak first. She opens her mouth, hurriedly trying to articulate a cajoling opener, she settles for “hi.” He says “bye” after the ten digits are obtained. Again, they head diametrically, except this time, with discrete grins.

Her blitheness interrupted by friends hollering from across the mass only to be heard as a faint whisper. Ineffectively, she mouths back to receive a blank response. Finally, she communicates via arms, hands and head. She nods to acknowledge that lights are on, bottles are empty and music is muted. Pointing at the coat-keeper, she clamors to reunite at the velvet rope.

Cables twined from wooly, deep eggplant twills of velvet marks the spot.
Gathered, they look satiable as they conjure up a place to dine, whine or speak of the fine.