They are wasted. They are drunk. They are addicted to cigarettes. They smoke so much that I feel like I’m smoking with them. My clothes stink; I’m a cigarette.
I’m disgusted. I’m disgusted by this atmosphere, by their fake sincerities and hellos. I’m disgusted by their attitudes, their Gucci bags and Versace sunglasses. I’m disgusted and I’m tired of bumping into people as I struggle to dance.
The speakers are so close to my ears that I’m almost deaf. A woman with fake, blond hair pushes me aside as she tries to pass through. Another woman steps on my foot with her high heel. She continues to dance with her husband while I’m in so much pain and feel like breaking her neck.
A man comes between us, wanting to accompany us because we are beautiful and are not taken. We ignore him. He leaves after a couple of minutes; it’s just me and her again.
We dance to songs that bring back memories from a past that is so far away now. We dance to songs that liberated us when the world was our small villa by the Caspian Sea. We dance to songs that we grew up with…but now that I’m dancing, I’m wearing too much eyeliner, I’m sweating, I’m being pushed and stepped on, and I’m trapped…This is a different liberation…
I can’t take it anymore…there is too much smoke. We leave and a cute Persian boy says salam (hi). It’s too late now, I think, you should have said hello when we were inside, dancing…
I’m so glad to be home now, out of these stinky clothes, away from a wasted, addicted, drunk crowd…