INSTRUMENTAL SANCTUARY — 2.1
The city wasn't any quieter than usual. Despite the underlying current of social distrust, the youth were out in droves enjoying the club scene. In the queue waiting to enter our favourite venue, Lindsay, Theresa, and I took photos on our phones and teased each other into fits of laughter. After fifteen short minutes of waiting in the cold, we were let loose inside once we flashed our ID cards at the bouncer.
Our trio mingled with the crowd of a hundred moving figures. Beneath the dry-ice smoke screen, an array of blues, acid greens, hot pinks, and bright white lights swirled—an ocean of black silhouettes danced beneath the neon illusion of northern lights. For now, we three stood at the shore, anticipating the dive-in. It wasn't long before I was taken and enveloped by the undulating swarm. We moved as if the music had fused with our bodies; each note pulled an invisible string, making our limbs slaves to the DJ's puppetry. All around us, the building quaked under the onslaught of the heavy techno bassline. Its penetrating intensity assaulted my eardrums so violently that its memory would be headache-inducing, one I'd suffer hours later. Though I was secretly concerned I would be deaf by the time I turned thirty, I was a sucker for punishment; music had always been my favourite therapist. It allowed me to escape whatever emotion I wanted and thrust myself into another. Right now, that was what I needed most.
Lindsay and Theresa abandoned me after they had danced through three songs. They preferred to start drinking enough booze to induce tomorrow's hangover—it was the payoff for drinking the poison needed to fuel whatever wild exploits that night had in store. Luckily for them, I had never been averse to dancing alone. Being solitary in a crowd of people who didn't see me was, ironically, where I felt most comfortable. Being trapped one-on-one with someone highlighted how socially awkward I could be. I closed my eyes to the music, arms reaching into the air in surrender to the pumping rhythm, enjoying how the lights illuminated the backs of my eyelids in kaleidoscopic colours. I could never comprehend how people needed drugs to feel as free as I did while dancing.
When I felt Theresa tugging at my wrist to rouse me from my trance, I had worked up a sweat. I opened my eyes to find her with a girl grinding against her.
"Lindsay made off with that hot bloke," she mouthed to me over the music. I chuckled and nodded, understanding that they must have already left together. "We want to head home, too, but I don't want to leave you on your own."
"Don't worry about it, T. I'm a big girl. I'll get myself home."
It wasn't the first time they had left me to make my way home alone. Honestly, if I'd ever thought about it much, I would have realised it was a shitty thing to abandon a friend just for the sake of getting laid. It was something I would never have done to them, but I supposed I had always been more responsible than them.
Left to my own devices and having worked up a thirst, I negotiated my way through the crowd to the bar. The reason the Omen was our scene wasn't only because of its dystopian, techno-noir vibe. Or even that it drew a crowd of like-minded people, as much as they fell into the wider clique and social group we were part of. No, the main reason was that one of the bartenders was an alumnus of our university and a close friend of Lindsay's older brother. Karl had introduced us to the club during freshers' week, and we'd been loyal patrons since. He was a cool guy, a big brother figure, because he always kept us safe while we were out. Too bad that he wasn't working that night; I would've asked him for a lift home. However, while looking for Karl, I spotted an unfamiliar face on the staff. When I saw him, one thing came to mind: even if he hadn't been the next free bartender and enquired after my order, he would have still caught my eye.
Everyone looked more attractive in the inconsistent lighting of the club, but he stood out. He wasn't my type at first glance. For one, he was likely a few years older than me, given his level of diligence while working the bar, and two, he was way out of my league in the looks department. But watching him prepare the drink I ordered didn't seem rude—I was happy to look and not touch, and so my assessment began.
His hair was of medium length on his crown and shaved at the sides. His fringe flopped over his face, which he occasionally swept back out of his eyes—a mannerism I found pretty hot. Those longer locks were dyed platinum blond and appeared purple under the neon lights. It was difficult to differentiate much beneath the technicolour rays—one minute, his face was lit up red, and the next, blue, confusing the way my eyes perceived the hues. But the giveaway to his natural hair colour was his undercut, the short stubble on his chin, and his eyebrows—one pierced by a silver bar—that were a darker shade. The black button-down shirt he wore, rolled to his elbows, revealed several small tattoos on his forearms. Upon closer inspection, I noticed one depicting a winged, horned demon, which seemed quite fitting given the rest of his appearance. He exuded an 'I can handle myself' vibe without coming across as the brutish type.
As he hadn't fully buttoned his shirt, the silver chain hanging between his pectorals caught my eye—his musculature hinted that he likely worked out. Like a magpie, I became fixated on what else sparkled on him: two silver rings on his fingers. For whatever reason, I noticed that he wore neither on his fourth finger. Hmm, not married. The thought crossed my mind as quickly as it went. Mostly, I considered how his hands seemed strong and trustworthy... My ogling and daydreaming were cut short when he placed my drink before me. He didn't seem to notice me; he was merely doing his job and offered a pleasant half-smile. Just like that, he was gone, attending to someone else, and I remained at the bar, savouring my first round and feeling at ease in my solitude.
Another bartender served me my second round while I checked my messages and social media. Although I had tried not to stare at the white-haired bartender while he was busy working, I was glad when he returned to my vicinity and even more so when he took my next order. He nodded with the same half-smile as before but didn't utter a word when I indicated I'd have another of the same. However, while he prepared my drink this time, he maintained excessive eye contact. I couldn't react negatively and held his gaze, hopefully without revealing any unintended expression.
I was startled by the touch of a damp hand on the exposed skin of my waist. "Hey babe, I'll buy you your next round." I heard a male voice uncomfortably close to my ear say and turned to find a face backlit by the bright dance floor lights, but I could barely distinguish his features.
"Uh, no thanks. I think this is my last one."
"Aw, come on, babe. It's not closing time yet. One more drink won't hurt." Despite my refusal, he was persistent and smarmy, and his sweaty hand hadn't budged.
"I'm flattered, but honestly, no thanks," I reiterated and turned to drink what remained of my third round, only to see the blond-haired bartender taking it away and replacing it with a full glass. "I—I just said I didn't want another one," I hissed.
Silently, his steely eyes shifted from mine and shot the clingy guy at my side a warning glare. Immediately, I felt the hand disappear from my waist and looked to see him retreating along with his wingman, who I hadn't noticed had my other side flanked.
"This one's on me, but you can drink this if you want to go home with him that bad?" the bartender held up my old, half-drunken drink and explained, "His friend spiked it while he tried chatting you up."
My heart lurched. I'd never had my drink spiked before. "Oh. Right... erm, thanks."
His gesture was kind, but that was the responsibility of a good bartender. I hoped he could tell my thanks were genuine and that I was sorry I'd been short with him in how I smiled.
The refreshing drink washed away unpleasant feelings, and the close shave didn't tarnish my evening. I wasn't ready to head home, so I moved away from the bar to blend into the dancing crowd. I wanted to dance until I could hardly stand—that way, I'd sleep well. I savoured the freedom from dwelling on the latest gossip on everyone's lips just as much as I craved the exhilarating buzz dancing provided. Back in the comforting embrace of anonymity, I swayed my body to the rhythm of the next song and zoned out.
