Follow Me in the Club

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?