I Agree

Genre: Lyric Essay

photo by bowen ames
model, dre davis

“i wish i could dance here,” she says (to no one in particular.) she’s sitting at a table of people she supposes she might call friends. in a new city it’s hard to tell if someone has earned the title or is a mere acquaintance. she wishes she could dance here, shake her hips. but not her hips - some other part of her body she’s not been taught to be ashamed of, whatever part of her body is deemed sexual, she supposes. the floor is filled with bodies, beads of sweat clinging to foreheads, and dampened strains of hair. she lights another cigarette. she looks up as the glow from her lighter slightly brightens her face, shows the carefully applied shadow around her eyes. her cigarette is lit and her lighter is now in her pocket and she wonders for just a second if someone saw her face in a brighter light and if they thought they might want to dance with her. but the song changes and the moment is gone. looking over her shoulder she notices a boy she think she might have known years ago. it’s not him. boys have become all so similar, she thinks. shaggy hair, tiny waists, studded belts. it might as well be him, he’s probably not all that different. “why aren’t we dancing?” says a female friend/acquaintance sitting beside her. “the music sucks,” that’s why, she says. but it isn’t really the music, she half-thinks. it’s probably the people, all the boys with the shaggy hair and the studded belts; it’s so generic. cut to the bar next door - same situation, same people, different song that sounds the same. how many other people, how many other bars, in how many other cities are being painted in the same light right now. probably more than she’d even guess. and they're all probably thinking the same. she puts her cigarette out and stands. “i am going,” she says, curling her lip, “i am not in the mood for this tonight,” gathers her coat and shuffles through crossed legs and breaks away from the table. “you’re sure?” the friend says desperately. “yeah, stay,” not looking back. “i can’t dance here, i don’t want to dance here.”

“which is it?” i think aloud. but she doesn’t answer. i am undeniably an acquaintance, not a friend. i have shaggy hair and am wearing a studded belt.