"You have to dance with more than just the people you came here with,” he said in a sort of exasperated tone, leaning over and speaking into my ear to overcome the blaring house music.
I’d had a few vodka Red Bulls by this point. Grasping for excuses I blurted back, “It’s not really my thing, you know?” Expecting a visceral response he instead gave me a look that spoke its own words: something like, “Yeah, I know, it wasn’t really my thing either.”
The kind of look my older brother, whom coincidentally is also his age, would give me as I tried to find my footing and occupation among a torrent of Minneapolis scenesters who just wanted to drink liquor until their hearts stopped beating.
A few moments later I found my way back to First Avenue’s dance floor where Andreja and Vanessa promptly placed one hand each on the back of my head, shoving my face into theirs creating a very drunken ménage à trois; an awkward cacophony of writhing tongues in which I wasn’t much able to distinguish one mouth from the next.
They smiled at me sheepishly as I tried to pretend like that totally happened to me all the time. The drive home was not sober. I don’t remember where home was. I think I slept with one of them.