Written by Gora Shade

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100% written by a human, for humans

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For those with secrets in the dark

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Jay, my broken-hearted wingman, is AWOL. I’m getting tired of waiting for him. It makes me feel claustrophobic to be surrounded by the illusion of infinite space created by the dark, the fog machine, and the disco ball in this club, and I’m not a fan of the overpowering pulsation from the DJ’s bass cutting right through me. It’s just bad music here. No one wants to hear crap eighties tunes remixed to sound like modern techno and played too loud on a crap sound system. Some clubs get the proportion of space, sound, and crowd level right, but this place is a dive. Jay’s lucky I’m supportive enough to walk into a hole like this. He’s my best friend, and the break-up’s been hard on him. He wants to be surrounded by hot, single, warm bodies, where he can mingle with all the others wishing to drown their sorrows.

Sure. I can support that; just wish he’d have chosen a better place.

I check my phone, but there’s no new message.

Screw this! The least he could do is show up. Dude is already half an hour late.

I know Jay has his duties at the base like the rest of us flyboys, but if this crowd gets any thicker, I’ll suffocate. I can’t enjoy myself alone, and I know I must look like some creep just watching everyone else. I don’t want to be that creeper on the sidelines. I am not on the prowl.

I chug the remainder of my beer and set the empty bottle down on a table behind me. The crowd continues to grow thicker on the dance floor, and I find myself pushed up against a cold, brick wall. It’s covered with flyers and posters that crunch against my back, and broken, discarded bottles clink under my boots. I nudge a piece of busted bottle away with my foot and find it sticks to the floor.

Dirty club. Sweep once in a while. Mop a little, maybe! And someone should tell the bouncer out front to keep the door open. It smells like stale piss and old sweat in here.

The temperature is rising from the rapid movement of enthusiastic dancers too drunk to care about their surroundings. Hot breath and cramped space are making my uniform—especially my white undershirt—stick tighter to my body with sweat, and I’m growing more uncomfortable by the moment, feeling I can’t breathe. I know I look good in the Air Force getup, but sometimes I wish I could toss it all for jeans and a t-shirt.

Forced by my lack of movement, I’m pushed by the thrall closer to the entrance. I think that now, instead of a creep, I must look like the hesitant shy guy without the balls to take that first step into a room. Also not the...

The Encounter