The sounds of the maraca or the bartender. 

The swirl of the smoke - or the swirl of the likka behind your eyes.

Either way, there’s what’s happening, and there’s what’s happening to your senses. To your inhibition, as you sit, less than 2 feet from a new temptation. 

This one, is a new one that’s good for your forward movement. That direction holds hoe shit. Holds promise of the danger you need, crave, to bring you the taste of danger of reality. A man who holds what you find irritating and interesting and necessary - the chutzpah to invite a new female friend to a sexy, hidden speakeasy, ply her with conversation and cocktails and attention timed just right. 

———

By the end of this night, P has her answers column as empty as when she came in, the direction, when and where and why, still mysteries.