Daze of 1987Amy Lemmon
Primed by drinks at home, hair just right, black outfit brushed of white cat-fur, you were ready to head out. You’d know by the way they were dressed this was the place. Look down, surprise, you’d worn the right skirt, or something close. Walk down the hall past face after face you knew or wanted to know: The black-clad scraps of local bands, the junkie roommate (pre-restraining order), the groupie vixen moving up to girlfriend, all loosened, numbed, smiling slack against a wall or crumpled into a beanbag chair. Unformed faces shrouded in Camel smoke, lights too bright in the hallway, too dark in the kitchen, everybody jammed in, blocking the fridge. You saw it all, and it was good. Draining the third bottle, you’d check your watch, make sure the night was young—ridiculous, for night was older than you could imagine.
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