In the Club

He walks into the club. Loud music banging, people a plenty, drinks going around to those with bracelets. As he gets his hands marked with X's, he thinks about how it's just 3 months away until he gets one of those bracelets too. What will he do when he gets that bracelet?

He shrugs it off, and walks into the swimming pool of people getting down to the beat. As he gives out his high fives and his "how you doin'?" greets, he catchs up with his posse. They're all there; but he doesn't really "see" anyone but one person: her. She's visiting, seeing the show, catching up with the people, breaking it down like nothing else. He thinks to himself, "wow, she looks amazing tonight." He talks a deep breath, reassured that he did swallow that little brown pill of pride before coming to the club.

It's a good thing there is no side effect with alcohol, because he definitely brushed his teeth with his bottle of Jack before reaching the club. He walks into the ring of friends, and starts dancing, trying not to think about her. It's not possible. Every so often, he'll sneak a glance, sometimes more than just a peek. The realization then dawned on him; it's not her, it's all him, in his mind.

He's driving down the road of recovery, but hit a large pothole along the way. He is now stuck on the side of the road between acceptance and coping, with no spare, and little to no battery left on his smartphone.

Back to reality. He notices a fella, glowing pretty in the dark hall, staggers over behind her, and starts dancing with her. She gives the friends a weird look, clearly put off by this strange, sketchy guy who's behind her. After that song dies, the strange fella takes off, after getting a name. He takes a big gulp of air, tries to ignore it, but it's too much. After maybe 2 hours of various guys coming and going, he's seen enough.

He isn't sure if he regrets coming to the club. He put a lot of effort into putting a good show, and felt like he should reward himself with just a night out to have fun with friends. Maybe it was too soon, a tough, bitter aftertaste that essentially dictated his mind, and thus, the evening.

Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe not. He doesn't know anymore. As he slumps back into his cold single dormitory room, he stares at the huge pile of work he has in the "To Do" pile, and the empty tray labelled "Done." With a heavy sigh, he picks up his pencil, and grabs the first sheet from the top of the "To Do" pile.