edge of the continent

Etta’s howling on the stage. The crowd closes in — there’s the brush of an arm, the bump of a hip — the contact is fleeting and not at all unwelcome. I arrived with friends, but stand alone on the floor where the press, the heat, the music is intoxicating and swirls around in my head. I am anonymous; I am am moved by the beat. I close my eyes and sway under colored lights. I think of my solitude. I don’t think of my solitude. I drive home and crawl into bed.