Sweaty, crowded dancefloor, no movement voluntary but an effect of the swaying nearby. Crowd surfing like it's the nineties and it makes you laugh, it rebuilds your hope. The line was too long, a miracle snuck you through, you are on the other side of the waters and still the town seems so small, the crimes so innocent.
You build a new life here, with people of old. There is comfort in familiarity, confusion in geography. You do not mind. The bed is twice as full tonight and you adore the voices around you, the morning ahead. You gave him, perhaps, the wrong number, but there is no telling until later and now you can but laugh, and laugh, and remember to get off at the right subway stop.
The morning will still be february, and cold, and maybe snowy, but this night is all sparkles and power ballads and rose petals, ironically but still. This night is sparkles. You cannot ask for more.
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