Baileys

The bottle in her hand was black,
the label emblazoned with red and gold.
She tilted back her head to take a swig,
Hair sliding off her shoulders to expose
Her slender neck to the world.
The boys crowded by the stage, drawn
Forward by the music, and the band,
And the guitars they wished they could play.
At the back of the room we stood,
With the bottle of baileys clutched in one hand
And waited to catch the glances of strangers.
Outside the doors, our friends hover in a haze
Of smoke, tops drawn tight over slim figures,
Cigarettes dangling from elegant fingers.
I catch the eye of one as she looks round
And smile vaguely. I will not remind of those words
She said so long ago. A vehement declaration
to never smoke. I should, but she will only
hate me for reminding her of her daytime self.
I let my eyes slide away, to catch the admiring
Glance of a boy I know. I smile slightly,
Turning my head to flick my eyes at him
From underneath mascara lashes.
I raise the bottle in my hand to my scarlet lips,
Feel the cold glass against my mouth,
Feel the smooth taste of cream fill my mouth
And slide into my head. My laugh is louder,
More spontaneous, fuelled by the bottle I clutch.
As the music changes, we begin to dance.
The beat is stronger, rhythmic.
We step forwards, and let our bodies
Be defined by it. Our feet in their high heels
Scatter across the floor, our hair swinging
To the motion of our bodies. In this moment,
The music, our dresses and makeup and shoes,
it is everything. There is nothing else but
The hungry eyes of the boys, the critical
Glances of the girls, and the suspicious
Glares of boyfriends. It is all part of the music,
The taste of baileys in my mouth, the ache in my
Throbbing feet. It is all one, all one and the same.

At midnight, our parents come to take us home.
Our shoes are put away behind the door, clothes
Left strewn across the floor. Our curls are brushed out,
And none of it seems important in the morning.