Chalk

The girl in the purple dress always feels a jolt when she walks into a club, no matter how hard she tries to prepare herself, and tonight is no exception. The lurch feels strangely strong now, she thinks, as two burly men in black open the glass doors for her and she steps into dim lights, blaring music (electronica, as they call it), cigarette smoke, black-clad people from the twenty-something demographic, laughter and talk, beer bottles, the smell of beer. A quick glance around the room points her to the friend whose birthday it is, the friend who had asked her to come. After the requisite smile, the peck on the cheek and the greeting, she singles out a seat in the corner of the bar and walks towards it, all the while holding her chin high and trying extremely hard to act nonchalant, even when all she wants to do is to turn on her heels and run away, out into the evening air, the friendly, quiet evening air. Instead, she sits down on her chosen nook, exchanges hellos with the couple nearby, orders a coke, and stares at the empty napkin holder on the table in front of her. The music seems to have gotten louder and she is grateful that the couple she is sharing the table with seems to be as spiritless as she is. Cigarette smoke starts to sting her eyes and she shuts them tight for ten seconds, feeling the urge to keep them closed for ten more. Instead, she opens them and sees the same tarnished lights blurring the same, nameless faces, hears the same thundering music drowning the small, shallow conversations. She takes a sip from her coke and thinks of her soft, warm bed.