Back from the clubs. Mega royal treatment going in. Friend knew some important guy who showed up, muscle shouldered, brick shit house, pony tail and ready grin. He waved across the sea of people trying to get in, and we slide through, Moses parting the Red Sea style. Into the club. Into the womb of heavy beats and bodies moving through the gloom. Up the curving staircase, and through the line outside one of the long, curving rooms. Music beating, beating, beating. Inside. Shots at the bar. Vodka Redbulls. Music. I ask my friend how he knows the important dude. He leans over and yells in my ear that he delivered his baby.
I look at him. He’s for real. His grin is wide and his eyes are alight. I laugh, delighted, and we begin to dance. The four of us. Two guys two girls, perfect combination. The crowd surging around us. Music mixed and insidious, making you move, making you move, making you move. I don’t break a sweat. I don’t get tired. I dance, and somehow, despite the months and months, the years of not dancing, it comes back to me. I remember rhythm. I remember beat. I move, dance, and it’s the best. Lights strobe, women like only the women in South Beach can get dance alongside me. I move into a crowd, momentarily dance with three girls, fall back out, at the bar, another drink, back with my friends. Dancing. Dancing. “Where are you from?” I yell. “I’m training to be a nurse,” she replies. Doesn’t matter. I laugh at her, she smiles back, we dance, five songs, six, and then she’s gone.
Eventually our group implodes, collapses into itself, and we leave. Cab it to the car. Valet it back. Climb in behind the wheel, and begin the long drive home, under the strobing street lights, along the curves and undulations of I95, back to my house, my room, the silence, sleep.