We take the bus like anyone else. We take the bus like you. The three of us sit in the back row, crowned in branches and buds, draped in intricate textiles–textiles you couldn’t imagine. Our jewelry catches the red and green of the streetlights, drawing you in. You’ll blush; look away.
Later, at the party, we’ll glow purple beneath the strobe lights, bathed in warm tobacco. We’ll flash in and out of your sight. The first of us will spin around you. She’ll thrash to the thrumming of the music, disappear in a flicker of dark curls. The music will end soon. The band stops, panting, and stacks their instruments haphazardly in the corner. As the crowd rushes out into the cool October midnight, the second of us enters your gaze. You run up the dingy cement stairs. You can’t focus on the graffitied walls, the cans you shove aside with your toes. Your eyes are locked on the heels of her brown leather boots, the scraggly lace hem of her floor-length skirt. The crowd swallows her.
Outside, we pass a flask around in a circle. As the rest of the party mingles, we three stand aside, draped inhumanly over a cold wooden bench.
You’re standing on the other side of the patio. Your friends laugh. They introduce you to their older friends, their boys in bands. They inhale, exhale Blue Razz and Piña Colada-tinged air. We keep passing our flask around, sipping the whiskey as you lock eyes with us–lock eyes with one of us, with all of us. You sip vodka diluted with lemonade, matching our rhythm.
A drumbeat, the ceremonious strumming of soundcheck. As everyone floods back in, we are lost in the crush of bodies. You can’t see us, can’t hear all voices in all the noise. But you’re pressed against all these bodies pressed against other bodies and these bodies might just be pressed against ours. And you can feel it, can’t you?
The music resumes. Tear off your old red flannel, wipe the sweat off your forehead. Cast it aside. You won’t need it where you’re going.
The third of us, the last of us approaches you. She doesn’t quite dance, just bounces to the sound as you wave about. She doesn’t look at you. You raise your hand to brush your sodden hair from your face. She is thrust into you, her gold locks latch onto your rings.
We’ve approached you, given you the chance to choose one. You haven’t had the chance to think about it, but your hand is in her hair. She whispers something as you raise your other hand to disentangle yourself. You can’t make out a word over the noises that ricochet off the walls, but she smiles, and you know she’s said something beautiful.