people standing and sitting at latin america club
The way the shitty disco lights are visible on the floor now that mostly everyone’s gone. The way they bubble and bloat in the streaks of beer and puddles of sweat. The way the aged pinantas hang from the ceiling like candy-laced specters. The way we mostly lean against the bar observing what’s left. Otherwise, we’re sitting but not drinking; talking instead. The way the pop song’s play and we actually enjoy them now that they’re in this empty, divey place. They way we like them when we listen to them on our iPhones, headphone’s plugged in, thinking nobody else can hear.