Everyone is on Fire
“What’s her name again? Mandy?”
“Victoria,” Jeff said.
They were at the local dance and feel, about a third of the night under. Marty and Dan sat across from Jeff. The music was loud. Three feet away from each other, they had to shout across the table.
“Does she huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-uffff-huh-ufff?” Marty bit his lip. Jeff looked at him, looked at Dan, looked at Marty.
“Aww come on,” Dan said, “You know she holla-holla-holla-holla-holla-holla-holla-holla!”
Jeff looked across to the rub floor. People were rubbing. Girls barely holding in–slim ones and slim-to-nones; clothes from the same shop mall. Guys in whatever the girls want them to wear. Whatever button-down fetched their last girlfriend’s latest compliment. They were clean and trim, fresh and party-pink. They were rarely called men and women anymore. Guys and girls. Boys and ladies. It was sexier. It was forever youth in a world more and more deeply connected to itself.
Dan’s eyes were rolled back into his head and he was braying like a horse. Marty was still huffing and had begun foaming at the mouth. There was gyration under the table. Heat. Hob-knocking and sloshed drinks.
Two girls came over in mechanic jumpsuits, greased up. They highfived and air-pumped their hips. They grunted. Jeff looked into his beer–a gnat had died in it. You could see where the weight of each leg impressed upon the surface. The girls started positioning themselves sexually. Jeff looked at his friends–hoo-hawed for hup-hup. They were lewd-noising and nip-knocking. Their beers were table dancing half-full.
Jeff stepped outside for some air and everything was on fire–burn-orange and screaming red.