@sophiaemeloni

21/61: The irreconcilable place where Aunt Michelle conga lines with Rondog Millionaire fresh off a drunk confession and the high school girlies play Rock Paper Scissors over my various high cheek boned Italian American distant cousins and family friends. Where I share a moment with my Dad’s ex boyfriend and take back a shot with a friend group of married men who maybe wish they were my Dad’s ex boyfriend. Where my Mom slips into just Sherm remaining loyal to the disco, 40 years eclipsed in a single hip gyration and the other Moms, in the heat of the moment own up to the time that they may or may not have done a bowl of cocaine with Elton John that one time in Milan. Where the ominous chatoyancy of the night meets the brilliant chaos of intergenerational partying and it all manifests in the image of a life long family friend k-holing in on the dance floor in a belly shirt. I see the ghost of Nights Out future. It is impossible to keep the feather boa from catching on the sequins and indiscernible where silk ends and the polyester begins. The distance between the dance floor and my exposed right nipple on a times square sidewalk is a single tequila soda. Chucky waits in excited anticipation. At the stroke of midnight he turns 21 and discards his trousers revealing the tiny gold jiggalo shorts he dawns beneath his clothes. The conga line snakes around the bar and back again, the party rages on, I turn another year older and I feel loved. [April 2nd]