You might feel it behind the eyes but you’re not that suave lovable guy every girl wants to wrap her arms around. You’re just part of the herd, another clonetrooper with matching uniform.
Look in the mirror.
Those same eyes are lethargic, delayed reaction. You can almost see the blood alcohol content in the pupils, glazed by the harsh overhead lights.
Look in the mirror, that rational edged reflection of reality, without the romanticism of the dance floor, the darkness between the glittering disco ball. When you walk through the crowd, all these caricaturized faces, dancing and moving, moaning and chattering, like exaggerations of real people. Under the strobe, each character comes through in slices, single second motifs of monochrome illumination, refracted through trippy ethanol lenses.
Ring up your tab and step out, perhaps not even tipsy. This was the price of the evening, a polished facade and dent in the debit card.
Beyond what the grunts would call fun, this is high culture parade, a vanity fair. Cloned guys and primed debutants, feigning boredom cause it’s in fashion.
“What do you do?” spoken with a sneer. Dollars and cents rung up immediately, long term potential mate prospect calculated instantly. Under those beating lights and subwoofers, this is a chophouse, auction block butchery, meat factory. The fucking Dow Jones Industrial of hearts and souls.
Such is the glossy night life world of the young urban professional.