His elbow presses up against mine and I’m overwhelmed.  The human contact nearly forces my eyes to roll back into my brain.  He moves to say hello to a friend, but the imprint of his jacket next to mine lingers.  “Silent Sigh” from Badly Drawn Boy rushes through my head, because even though I've heard he's a prick in a knit cap, Damon Gough knows what I’m going through.  I know this by the first few notes on his piano.  And I think if aliens landed and x-rayed the club, I would stand out because they would see that my heart was bigger than the rest.  They would capture me because the energy from the furious beat could surely be put to good use on their ship.

 

A friend slides by choking on the bland sounds wafting from the opening band.  He squints as if the motion of his eyes closing will make them sound better.  My friend quickly spits up memories of his ex girlfriend without me asking and rattles on about the break up and how she just didn’t “get him.”  We all know it ended because they had nothing in common but sex. No connection.  No fire, but they tried to convince themselves otherwise because they looked so good together.  Someday, they’ll reunite and give birth to skinny vegan children who will play music via found objects, convinced that wood is a living-breathing thing with feelings.  They will protest outside of Guitar Center—an organization they will come to believe is conducting tree massacres in a rainforest on a continent they’ve never heard of.  They will call themselves The Treegans and hipster chicks will latch on just like they did to knitting this year.  My friend and his future ex-wife will both have affairs.  She with her not gay but totally gay interior designer.  He with a not yet twenty-one year old Kinko’s associate who prints flyers for his yogurt/t-shirt shop. 

 

I dig a thumbnail into the palm of my hand to make sure that I’m not just stuck in some mediocre nightmare.  I’m awake, and as I shake off the sting he returns with a smile that could knock me over.  Then she appears next to him—tube top girl. She slides her arm through his.  It’s a painfully thin Praying Mantis arm hinged to a plastic Barbie shoulder socket.  He seems pleased.  I want to dissect anorexic bug girl and pin her to a piece of Styrofoam, or at the very least, get her under a magnifying glass on a hot day.

 

An hour later nothing has changed. The band sucks, the beer is stale and I still want to be his main course but he’s already moved on to dessert.  A dozen cupcakes hang off his sleeve.  I can’t be a cupcake, so I try to convince myself that if only he knew how witty I was he’d forgive me for not fitting into Jenny Lewis’ hot pants.

 

If only.

 

I say “fuck it” but still try to catch his eye as I stumble toward the exit and my sanity.  And on my way home, alone, I chuck a little piece of myself out of the window.