..and it is, at least for tonight, then this bathroom is its bridge, the evening distilled and suspended into one crude and exultant moment, a gorgeous plateau of want, savage but unhurried, a private, whiskey-shimmered replay of all that’s come before, out there, in the tumult of dark and smoke and chicken wing grease, a way to both catch your breath and hold it, like titanium lungs on the verge of metallic combustion, like a bladder on the brink of sweet release, and what a release it is, away from the chorus, the expectant crush of karaoke revelers just outside the door, slurring the words of Skid Row, of Springsteen, of your favorite 80s songstress, pounding back brown bottles of anything, feet stomping into the syrupy stuck of days-old libations, heads thrown back like well-dressed wolves toward the mirror-balled moon, all hair and teeth and hearts, splayed and torn and worn, on acid wash sleeves, on frayed flannel, on soft, soft leather, tattooed love boys flinging themselves against the hard edges of the night, bodies building to a pathetic crescendo while you sink into the bridge, sink into the cool cavity of the shitter, press your platform boots into the piss-drenched floor and let it all spill and spurt forth, a warm and cozy river running wild between your legs while your mind bursts with possibility like a flower’s slo-mo bloom, flush with new color and light, with what the chorus of this power ballad promises once you wipe away the remnants of what you’ve set free, once you gloss up that mouth and tease up that hair and slather all that pink, slick against your skin, washing it clean and new, once you peer, curious, at your image above the rust-crudded sink and smile like you mean it, like you’re beautiful and believe it, once you inhale your animal self, sweat and bourbon and subtle perfume, once your breath mists pale against the door and you grab hold of the handle, hesitating with the hope that what’s to come never ends, that what’s out there is more of what came before but better, that what’s out there is the sustained and sublime ache of anticipation, the safe and solid weight of hours that build and build toward something, anything, before the poignant becomes tragic, before the buzz wears thin, before the inevitable outro, before the drama runs dry and the lights come up and the voice of your ceaseless yearning, once echoing electric and eternal, slowly fades and fades.
Jillian Luft is a Florida native currently residing in Brooklyn. Her work has appeared in Booth, Hobart, Pigeon Pages, and JMWW, among other publications. You can find more of her writing at jillianluft.com.