It’s a different type of love in the 2am club.
The red flowers on his Hawaiian T-shirt, match the red where the white should be in his eyes. He wears his sunglasses backwards, everyone thinks he’s trying to be cool, but actually he’s just too drunk to realise. A rum and coke has splashed like an explosion on his cargo shorts. He won’t notice until the morning. He has only one dance move, and will never bother to learn a new one. One dance move is enough to get the girl isn’t it? He ends his night being carried home by his just as wasted friends.
He is tall and bulky, at first glance a cross the street to avoid type of guy, but a double take suggests his face is nervous. How intriguing…he’s big enough to demand respect out of pure physicality, but sweet enough to not. He has two dance moves. The type you can tell he has researched on YouTube under, ‘How to Club Dance,’ or something like that. But they are well practiced and smooth. You copy him, pulsing and swaying in time with his rhythm. Worried eyes light up, relief. A few minutes later he offers to buy you a drink. His hand is on the back of your waist, but not below. You take the drink but don’t end up dancing anymore with him. He ends his night back watching from the cigarette littered seat in the corner.
He scaled the fence and asked me where I was from. Kicked out of the club three times, I pretended to be his girlfriend when the security guard came over to kick him out once again. His Irish accent lilts on every line, his Mickey Mouse T-shirt shimmers in the light. He asked me where I was from again. You let him lead you around the dance floor, and you let him buy you another drink. Later you can still taste the liquor on his lips as he ends his night with a MacDonalds red and yellow, neon lit, kiss.