There’s no such thing as a permanent spot in a crowd.

I drank the vodka and felt the ice clash with my teeth. Handing the drink back, I looked ahead, buried by men taller than I with a natural advantage for views. I saw the lights flicker above their heads as they turned closer and lower to the women they kept smiling at. I felt the music run through my body, in my black funeral dress that I wore earlier to show my respect to the family. I swayed and bobbed my head and felt the tension I carried all day. Another tall man shoved his way in front of me, to join his collection of tall men friends and the women they kept trying to impress. I could tell by their reaction to the music, as I watched past their faces to see the band. I could tell by the way they shoved past me, as I jumped and swayed. I could tell they weren’t prepared. That they were new. Complete amateurs. For what would happen when the openers were done. The natural pull of the first song: the call of the sirens to be drowned, the call of the band to the pit. I tried to warn them, when our bodies forcefully clashed. Don’t resist it. Save your energy, my young tall men, don’t try to push back, let it take you to the front and fight to keep your place! Use your legs! Watch your head! Chant the song! Raise your fists! They responded with an annoyed glance and a click of the tongue. Their last words before being swallowed by the crowd.

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