We deserve what we can get. Just a story.

Looking at the club full of people but feeling alone as no one is there, I see you standing in a corner with a cocktail in your hand. Big, fat, messy as usual; your curly, dirty, not cured hair all around the swollen face, the eyes moving fast following the people dancing and laughing all together. The only one there who is not part of the fashion walk, with your bad clothes: “why the hell are you here?”, seems to think a girl passing by, with a twisted smile on her face. All around us the kitsch furnitures of a strip club; some girls dancing at the pole with their tongues out, trying to be sexy, having fun with people looking at them; everyone wearing feather boas and high heels, coloured ties and funny hats. For sure one of the many hell’s waiting rooms filling the city during the saturday night. Emptyness and dispair, music too high to talk, a continous challenge on being the weirdest: that’s what we call a successfull party. Still not enough to fill my lacks. I feel uncomfortable. I come near you, gazing bored at the fitting room at our side, where a drag queen is talking with a girl and a man. I’m a bit drunk, people around are confusing me and making me feel sad at the same time.
“We don’t deserve this.”, I say.
You stare at me in silence.
“You think we do?”, I insist “I want more than just this”. I look around as to show you the club. A girl with a black mask and white feathers wings passes by, running unsteady on her heels.
“There are worse things.” you say seriously. “Maybe you deserve more, yes. But at the end we deserve what we can get. Change it if you don’t like it.”
A Bowie’s song is playing loudly as I remain in silence. It’s my turn at the consolle, I have to go. And also yes, I have to change it all. Like you would have to change your addictions, I think:

*I found you once in the kitchen at the club; I was working there as a waitress and I entered the room without thinking that someone could have been inside. You turned at me, scared, and I saw on the table a plate with a mountain of coke. I got scared too, it was the most giant mountain of coke I ever saw in my life. White on the white plate. White as your nose.
“Sorry”, you said whispering.
“No, it’s me being sorry”, and I went away. When I was back nothing was there anymore but awkwardness.*

But I made a question, no one asked me to give a suggestion.

They found you in your house. Death by natural causes, they wrote on newspapers. Heart attack, I knew from friends. You were not talking to your family from a long time, no one was there to search for you. Your face was on the ground, you were dead from a week. Have a good trip, and thank you for your answer.


That’s what we call a successfull party.


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