Noise Pt. 1
Day Eight of Thirty Days of Writing

You’ve never had the best hearing, but at a crowded bar you might as well forget about it. Blue, pink, and green lights strobe in concentric circles on the concrete floor. The humidity has left a coat of slime on your arm that you feel when a breeze somehow makes its way across the dance floor.
You stare up at the man who introduced himself as Mike, by shouting his name in your ear a few minutes ago. He has been going on and on about something for the last five minutes. You thought you might have heard the word bear, but maybe it was bar? You nod and laugh along, mimicking his facial expressions because there is no way you could understand anything he was saying even if he was yelling in your ear. You feel yourself smile at the thought. Two people taking turns yelling nonsense in each other’s ears:
“What do you like to do for fun?”
“No I don’t have a gun!”
“No not run, fun!”
It could go on and on. It was best for you to just smile and nod — much less confusion that way. Although it was hard to keep up — how much more could he have to say? Did he really think you could hear him over the bass that scratched through the floor to ceiling speakers?
You decide to grab his shirt collar, baby blue, Ralph Lauren? You dance closer. Maybe then you wont have to pretend later that you know anything he was talking about. As your hips sync and sway, you breathe him in and recognize the scent of earthy cologne he is wearing from a boy you used to have a crush on in high school.
You suddenly feel the need to leave. Like it would have worked out with what-was-his-name anyways. You find your friends at the bar, about to take a shot. It’s Cynthia’s birthday. The bald bartender slides a shot of clear liquid in front of you. You smell it — tequila. Your nose tingles and you knock it back. You can see the dance floor in the mirror, and whats-his-name is making out with some blonde with shorts so short her ass is hanging out. You pause, mildly curious about what he was trying to tell you before on the dance floor, and how that girl didn’t have to listen to it.
Cynthia points to a group of guys standing in the corner, and we conga-dance our way through the crowd to them. There are five of us and five of them, you notice from a brief headcount. The fifth has his back to the group as we introduce ourselves. He’s the tallest, brown hair, slight hunch in the neck. You lean forward, rest your chin just above each guy’s shoulder and shout “Melanie”. You feel ridiculous. The fifth guy turns and you lean forward to get this silly charade over with — John?
You both stare at each other mouths hanging open. John used to live in the apartment next to yours when you were seven. Both of your mothers worked late, so the two of you would hang out after school together. Rolling down the slanted hallway on his skateboard, playing crazy 8’s — the only game either of you had all the cards to. You were best friends for the entire year of seven. After the eviction you and your mom moved to Oklahoma to live with your aunt. You never thought you would see John again. There was no way for two seven year olds to stay in contact.
He motions smoking a cigarette and you nod, and both head to the back patio.
