The music faded and stopped. The DJ came on the microphone and announced the end of the evening. A muffled groan came from the dance floor as people began to clear off to collect their jackets, handbags and dates. Debts were paid off, and dance floor romances ended as they had begun; wordless stares into slightly bloodshot eyes.
One-night stands began and all night binges ended with a call for a cab or a suicidal fumble for the car keys. The last bit of alcohol was consumed, and, in the back alley, those who overestimated their own strength spilled more onto the concrete. This crowd of people, packed into a small, dingy room for one night of self-defiance and deprecation, finally began to quiet. As they began to disperse, like a single cell breaking apart from the inside in an effort to grow, the noise settled and the lights began to shine brighter than ever before.
The bartenders poured the last drinks, and the dealers moved into the parking lot to make their last sales. Hookers hooked and users used, but now they would have to go elsewhere. The night, the creature that it is, had been fed and was now bloated and lethargic. The true identity of those who survived, fishing in their pockets for their last cigarettes, or other fixes, seemed to hit them hard in the face with that first blast of cold air, the scent of fresh sunlight doing battle with the smoke and sweat.
The night itself was bedding down for its’ daily rest and it’s followers, the order of the night, the church of after hours, rescinded to their alternate selves, their mild-mannered identities, just to get some sleep. Their bones will still cry out for release, though. They cry to be set free, into the underbelly of the weekend.