the sounds dance as we are, the music like a waterfall right by our ears, and we are a part of the landscape. the photographer zooms in closer and he sees us. he snaps a photo as if to trap the ephemeral nature in a bottle. we drink from said bottle the liquid of opulence we are basking in. as lush as everything around us seems, with one too many chandeliers and dresses and tuxedos that cost a fortune, we exist as fireflies in the night, our identities remaining letters in sealed envelopes locked in drawers. we flutter and sway, chortle and whisper sweet nothings, somethings, anythings to whoever charms us for a moment’s dance.

she observes and picks at the seams of her maroon dress as if she’s entranced by a thriller novel. it’s so easy to feel tuckered out sometimes, she muses. she is an escapist by nature. she’s taken up running as a recreational activity, and she doesn’t run to feel the adrenaline rush. she runs to be alone. she hears their voices and their sheepish laughs behind their hands. these girls that are too scared to be themselves even under a silly mask. a physical facade to make poetic the abstract one.

she’s about to leave when he bumps into her. he is intoxicated by the late night energy and he’s decided she is going to dance with him. his hands aren’t awkward and sweaty but they’re soft and seem to know what they’re doing as they glide down the small of her back and poise themselves for a rhythmic rumble. she chooses not to be a rhythmic renegade and she accepts after it’s started that it’s going to continue because he has this coy grin that she doesn’t feel like resisting. a grin that tells her to trust him and to take a ******* chance.

they rotate like they’re a part of the solar system, and afterward share a couple of drinks. they talk about the vastness of the universe and share the same incredulity that they will never be able to touch a star or ever fully adjust their eyes to the intensity and immensity of sunlight. it saddens them both to the same degree. he shares his love of languages and his eagerness to learn about the world in which we were born as infinitesimal shapes. she talks to him about how she loves hearing a good story as much as she loves telling one, and how without words and the capability of expression she would feel paralyzed. they shift under the same wavelengths, twin fire signs. they drink up each others demons until their glasses feel half empty and save the other half for another meeting or twelve. and half past twelve, they remove their masks and the cages around their hearts.