As we stepped through the door from the fresh, icy winter air outside, it hit me, almost forcing me back into the street. It trickled down the stairs, invisibly thick and gloopy. I tried to turn away but it was too late, up the stairs we went, my lungs filling with it, almost choking me. At the top of the stairs, through the gloomy blue light, it hit me at full force. An air of desperation, not of the quiet type, but of the loud, in-your-face, shouty type.
On the dancefloor some people moved self-conciously to the crappy music – monotonously belting out a techno-beat – watching to see if anybody was looking. At the bar, three pretty girls drank shot after shot of children’s-coloured-too-sweet-shots, presumably in an attempt to convince themselves (unnecessarily) of their beauty, looking around, mascaraed eyelashes fluttering, lipsticked lips pouting, waiting to be picked up.
In the corner, a table of egos sat, talking too loudly, too fast, while they wiped their noses free of traces of white powder, a boring conversation made marginally more interesting, but only to the participants, their eyes bright, on the outside, the induced-shininess hiding a blankness behind it.
I felt my soul being sucked out of me by the desperation. I kept waiting for a pack of wild dogs to come out of the bathroom or from behind the bar, ripping a small animal apart, blood spurting. It was at that point I realised I needed to get out of that meat market, and quickly.
Do you think I’ve got too old for the clubbing scene?