Light. It was light, I think; I remember seeing a faint warm glow around the room. Everything was sort of fuzzy around the edges, but the colors were vibrant and rich and inviting. The red cups organized purposefully on the sides of the table. The green paper shamrock hanging haphazardly on the wall. The blindingly neon pink dress sported by a statuesque blonde. It was warm and light and beautiful.
Maybe it wasn’t just the light. Maybe it was warm because the room was packed with bodies radiating heat and energy and unwieldy sexuality, and our bloodstreams pulsated with far too many mixed drinks. The music reverberated through the soles of my feet and exacerbated the unsteadiness I was already feeling.
Hands touch my waist. Words are exchanged but not understood. Alcohol slides down my throat, leaving a fiery glow that makes everything lighter and brighter and warmer. It is hot. I am sweating. Hands. Arms. Legs. We are walking. Stumbling. Someone falls, not me, I hope – no, I am holding an arm. Whose arm?
Words. Arms. Hands. Mouths. Something bitter and carbonated, something sour and smooth. It is dark and we are close and your hands are on my waist, steadying me as the beer and the music and the darkness infiltrate my senses and I begin to slip away.
Walking. Where are we? The curb surprises me. My ankles give in. An arm drapes over my shoulder and slides slowly toward my hipbone. Hands again, words again. Buzzing. It might be my phone. It might be my blood boiling. Or it might be the rhythm of your mouth on mine.