Member-only story
Renaissance
Short fiction about mental health
Chip creeps up like a fog. “You want something to drink?” He asks loud enough and close enough to be heard over the heartbeat thump of the music.
You tell him the same thing you do every night.
Below the balconied VIP area you watch the crowd of a hundred-plus people pulse like one organism. Dancing among them, like a neon splotch, a girl in a hot pink tube top who is definitely too young to be in here.
Chip’s spider-fingers graze your arm as he passes you the glass of bourbon. Had he left and come back already? Or had he come prepared?
There was a time when you took pleasure in being the only person Chip would get a drink in his own club.
Below, the lights go down and the crowd roars. It’s 11 o’clock. It always happens at 11 o’clock. The band front man yells: “Are you ready to get down tonight!” An electric guitar squeals.
The air tastes tangy and oppressive with sweat. Overhead, an air duct churns to life, spurting your shoulders with cold.
“You could join us,” Chip says into your ear.
Behind you is a pool table, leather couches, and a party of exclusive selection. They’re alumni of Chip’s same business program, or his father’s friends’ sons, or some other…
