Starving

The beating drum gathered speed and intensity as Randall circled the dance floor. He felt the relentless pulse in his fingers, his teeth, deep in the solar plexus. It clouded his vision, numbed the mind. He pushed slowly on his forehead with his fist, trying to counter balance. There was no sign of the purple headed girls, no sign of the boy. Even Ignatius had apparently left the dance floor, though the girl remained, her eyes still red and raw and smudged, sniffling against the far wall. Randall waved to the bartender, made a hand gesture, waited for him to respond with a grim nod. Randall did not wait to see the bartender turn and give the same gesture to Bernice, and the two sound guys and the barback. After this many years, he knew what to expect from his co-workers.

He ran down the hall and burst into the men’s room which was empty and then the women’s which was not. Four young women leaned cautiously into each other’s faces, painstakingly pointing long black marking pens into each other’s eyes. They looked at Randall with unmasked shock and revulsion.

“Knock much?” said the brunette.

“Read much?” said the redhead.

“This is the ladies’ room,” said the pair of blondes.

Randall scanned the room and left without a word. If work wasn’t pressing, he may have stuck around, shot the shit, got them free drinks and took one or two of them home. The brunette was pretty, big black eyes, dark, cool lips. He imagined her in a burgundy coat. He thought of Ignatius in a burgundy coat. He thought of Ignatius. With a jerk of his head and a grunt he sped to the end of the hall, through the door marked, “AUTHORIZED PERSONELL ONLY” and down the stairs.





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)