Pecas
Surely, there’s a nightclub in New York City or Los Angeles that’s little more than a repurposed room, some former factory floor slick with sweat and spilled drinks and desire where the lights are low, hot, red, but the music is loud—pervasive and oppressive, parasitic, but slow and easy. There must be.
Here, the dim demons dance. You're drawn from the street, by a song whose hypnotic effects you recognize and ignore; it lures you into neon puddles and across cracked crosswalks, through a fog that spreads between the four-story buildings. As you approach, vulnerable and curious, you recognize that snare drum sound from that Nintendo game you got for your eighth birthday, the electric piano that reminds you of your mom’s smooth jazz station, and that only pulls you closer. Inside the club, the black shadows sway, mesmerized by the beat, the guitars like dripping icicles, and that voice, sweet and seductive—airy, an incorporeal voice slipping through the ether.
She’s a shy disco diva, you think, a shrugging ‘90s pop icon. Unsure, her melody emerges as a whisper, peeks through the piano’s pixels, the hovering organ, chords like mirages behind which it is impossible for her to hide. And then you see him, hunched over the kit, the beat—his domain.
You find yourself on the dance floor, your body bobbing in waves, drowning in the song’s familiar spirit, its foreign melody, its forbidden temptation. You’re enrapt by a rhythm that cocoons you, consumes you, changes into another ill-lit silhouette panting between demons on the dark dance floor. And what a relief that you’ve found this place, found these creatures, found this sound that feels slow and easy—so right.
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