A large room, a few hundred people there. The floor trembles. I wish my friends hadn’t left. Still holding out hope that this nausea might turn in to elation though. It’s possible, but I remember that guy on the stairs. Don’t trust him.
She stands in the booth. She’s thin, and moves her limbs like a marionette. I knew she was from Germany. Is that what all German girls look like? Two Spaniards beside me start up again. They say she’s usually wasted when she plays. Tonight though she looks majestically composed, almost vindictive. Some of the boys are waiting for her to mess up.
Then she does something that surprises me. She fades out the repetitive stuff and plays The Anchor Song by Bjork. Some guys in suits who’ve been drinking Red Bull and vodka since 6:00pm, whose sweat patches threaten to engulf them, look alarmed. They’ve been swaying half-conscious for almost as long as they’ve been drinking. The temporary let up of a kick drum has caught them off guard.
A confused hum rises from the throng, they fell cheated and slightly lost. They wanted a holiday in Ibiza and now someone has dropped them off the coast. Better complain to the travel agent, where is he? A palpable sense of disquiet evolves. She smirks.
art by Adam