Yellow lights were spattering against the bouncing hair of people dancing and arms of the people leaning when they first met. She walked into a place looking for someone familiar, to avoid having to introduce herself and seem interested in things that were less interesting- especially awkward when the music was loud and people screamed questions at her like where are you from and what are you studying and who do you know and who are you and she gave the mandatory smile… if the music went off, the person noticed how the conversation was an interrogation. Sometimes, she had to admit, this was how she met nice people.
Cold beer lightened her step as she danced past haters who did their best to say clever things to each other in front of her while balancing oranges on their head, a serious event they couldn’t smile about, even if they were balancing oranges on their head while half-drunk at a house party where Drunk In Love was playing, as if someone, somewhere in the room, was taking notes: You never know who was about to walk in.
The excitement of parties is the possibility that a new stranger might, at any time, walk in, through the door, to share one of those looks with you, through the people dancing and competing, one of those looks that pierce through Beyoncé’s voice and flatten the need to ask questions; the look that brings a smile when it isn’t strategic; the look that inspires one of your semi-squinting-lust looks, as oranges slide from your head; that look, not necessarily love at first sight but certainly something more than wanting to buy each other coffee; more than wanting to talk about how many sisters they have and why the place where they are from is better than other places or how cold Montréal is; that look, the first look, something to remember more than what was talked about, or asked, to look back on, that first look, when all the words are forgotten.
word by Liam Lachance
colour by Karol Banach