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Is there ever a good age for being in (or figuring out) the limelight? |
Slide up to the bar — "Gin and tonic, please and thanks." Tingly concoction, an antidote to the feast of writhing bodies and angling for some clout — Don't mind me. I'm here to do a little digging. A black fedora catches eyes but hides my face as I slink around, cataloguing the intel. Whether in dresses or a trouser/shirt combo, they're all try-hards here. Authenticity? P-fah! These days, the dance floor pumps out tunes in minor keys. It's an upgrade, sure. It still makes the youths horny. But what is youth now? I've already been carded despite middle age hitting on me at the door. My drink shows my age — what twentysomething sips gin? Yeah, it feels damn weird to mingle this close to fame. This crowd makes their cash on a video platform. So why I am here? I gotta figure them out. Stroll by some couches, and I hear these young adults yammer about trends and which drama to cover. What will bring the views? Guess it's time to chase the hits. Perhaps in that mess they can define their niches. Crop tops can't cover for flimsy analytics. I can hear the groans rumble from older statesfolk, the ones who have learned the platform's fickly secrets. They know youth won't last, that no change lasts forever. But where do I stand? My smooth, tan skin screams "New star!", yet I could be the mother of these club patrons. I forgot to age even as my life collapsed like a factory with no goddamn oversight. I stand out/blend in, doesn't matter where I go. No one here says much to me-do I look THAT young? Middle age, it seems gives me no place to fit in. Well, that's one more lie I believed that's pure rubbish. Where did my drink go? Guess it's time for a refill. Head back to the bar. Someone new is there this time, quite gorgeous and gray. It's good to see this old guy. I feel less alone; maybe he'll see my true age. Another cocktail — this time paired with some water — is set before me. That moment's when I see it: a scar carved beneath his eye. When on Earth did he gain mixology practice? As young women bounce to some nameless, bass full tunes not far from the bar, I ponder my next actions: ensnare this barkeep and then what? Commune with him? How would that proceed? "We're both too old for this shit." Then I look over and find him watching, gray eyes tracing my pinstripe jacket before chancing a glance past my hat brim. His eyes pause, what does he see? Probably a wreck; compound trauma will do that. "Just how old are you?" Don't people ask that of him? Yeah, we both exist in suspended timelessness. But how old is he? The few months gap between us — that is a shocker. Outside it looks like much more. Those hopeful gray eyes spark a question in my mind: should I stay, or should I go? |