Party, the music was loud, everybody was drunk dancing falling over the couch and doing redundant beer runs. I ended up in a hippie circle, next to an energetic college girl with a punky hairdo. Somebody mentioned the word love.
“Love is only in the movies,” said somebody else.
“No, no,” said the punky girl, “Don’t you wanna be like, mmmmmmmm,” she purred and touched my shoulder sensually, but not really my shoulder in particular.
“Yeah, sure,” I said.
“When I was with my ex, and he touched me, I melted away and expanded, and felt like the entire universe was fucking me. All the millions of galaxies, like this, mmmmmmmmmm,” she touched my back, my shoulder, my arm, but who would really want to touch my back, shoulder, and arm? “I thought I could never feel this way again. I thought I was numb. But love will come.”
“Yeah,” I nodded, but I knew deep inside nothing good was coming. Because sometimes in the evenings, especially when the music is loud, I lose all sense of worth. And nothing good comes to worthless people, if there is justice.