A Night in a Year: 32. Queue

[jacquelineb]

A queue is snaking out from the bar she wishes to enter. She looks down the length of it, and assess it will be at least a five minute wait.

She decides she can afford five minutes.

She attaches herself onto the end, and is soon joined by a group of four men. They are maybe her age or younger, with fresh as daisy faces, eagerness, joy, excitement of the night before them. They are chatting to each other – pleasantly, without any macho posturing. This is good. She can handle a bit of cocky strutting, but she prefers to view if from afar, the other side of the room or opposite side of the street, something to be noticed, watched, but heaven forbid interact with; too many thought showing off to their buddies constituted finding a woman to holler at or pull her hair or try and grope. Like in the playground, but far more threatening. A pack is different from a group of friends.
One of them – tall, blond, broad – turns to her and smiles, and asks her how long she has been waiting.

“Just got here,” she says.

“Oh, that’s good. How long do you think it will be?”

She detects a slight accent through the word perfect English.

She tells him. He nods.

“That’s ok. Better than ok. At least we can talk out here.”

She cocks her head. “We can talk inside too.”

“Ah, but with all that music throbbing and people trying to talk to each other, you end up Shouting! And Screaming! Trying! To Make! Yourself! Heard!”

He mimics the hoarse shouts that everyone uses in a club to make themselves heard, replete with the excessive, expressive facial movements that accompany them so well that she giggles, her hand going to her mouth, almost shy.

He seems very sweet.

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Next: 33. Origin

Image found on flickr, by Alex Brown, used under the Creative Commons License.

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.