Strangers sway to the rhythmic bass.
Lights flash, eyes widen, blood rushes — the company of the other dulls for a moment — and the noumenal nasal, the powder of pure joy, transfixes the men to the skies; their sorrow drowned out by speakers and speakeasies.
For a night, the numbness, the threshold of feeling, is crossed by the sea of liquor, parted by the white sands; and the touch of the other electrifies the dimmed dance floor.
The moment is lost in ceaseless eye contact, each man swimming in the eyes of the other.
The bass beneath their skin, the anticipation tingling on their tongue, the sweat glistening on their brow — what tomorrow brings doesn’t matter, for the numbness will return — but tonight, the men will feel.
