AFTERS is Calling

You definitely should take this one

Do you remember getting ready for your first middle school dance?

Laying out your favorite outfit hours in advance, experimenting with hair and make-up, calling everyone you know just to make sure they’ll be there. The anticipation for something that only exists when you’re 13.

It’s not all that different from how we get ready to go out now.

A night out can feel briefly euphoric.

The darkness of the bars and clubs is kind. In the dimness, everyone looks better. Braver. Bolder. You can lean in close to someone and pretend it’s to talk about the music, you can sing along without caring how you sound.

The drinks are flowing, your bar tab is nonexistent, your best friends surround you and suddenly every song that comes on is your favorite.

You’ve been looking forward to this all day and it’s the best night of your life. It’s exactly like the last Saturday you had, and the one you’ll have next week.

Then the house lights come on.

The DJ plays one last song for the road as he packs up his gear and the bouncers begin to sweep the crowd for stragglers.

The music is cut mid-beat, followed by awkward chatter and the shuffling of feet towards the only exit. The silence that follows is almost embarrassing, the slow song that felt monumental thirty seconds ago now feels ridiculous in the echoing noise.

People blink as if they’ve just woken up, some of them have. It’s like watching a horde of drunken zombies slowly saunter toward the door.

A light turning on typically means new beginnings, but this one means the end.

You’re suddenly very aware of yourself — smudged gloss, ratty hair, sweaty palms from clutching an empty drink. Making your way towards the exit you’re clumped in with people you’ve never seen before, or maybe you have , but can’t tell anymore.

It’s dirty and raw. The performance is over.

We revert to something quieter, less polished. Not at all impressive. We already wore our favorite clothes, our hair was flawless, hellos and goodbyes are long said and done.

You can see it on everyone — the comedown, the confusion, the checking-out.

The lovers that wouldn’t let go of each other aren’t touching anymore. Strangers are bumming cigarettes and holding conversations that don’t land. Someone is checking their phone like they need to be rescued. Someone else is pretending they’re not.

Mascara smears. Smiles drop. Eyes wander everywhere.

The appeal has faded. It’s obvious that the girl next to you has been crying in the bathroom.

It’s not sad, it’s simply honest. No one is performing well enough to convince you otherwise.

The masks are off; we don’t have to try anymore.

At the end of the night there’s this veil that’s lifted from our eyes — under these bright lights we all look like those same young kids leaving that first dance.

We’re awkward and inept and scanning the room for social cues and trusted adults as if we aren’t fully grown. How much longer until we stop searching for reassurance?

The bouncers are the teachers ushering us out, the Ubers waiting are our parents ready to hit the carpool lane, and we’re still exactly the same. Just dressed better. Slightly drunker.

Maybe a part of us will always be awkwardly 13, but we aren’t anymore. We haven’t been for some time.

Still — there may be one more thing that separates us from those kids waiting for permission to leave the gymnasium.

We don’t have to go home.

For a moment, that second realization becomes bigger than the night you planned for.

No more plans. No expectations. Still maybe someone to impress.

But now it’s just instinct.

There’s a pub around the corner that closes when the sun rises, a 24-hour diner on the ride back to your friend’s apartment, you could end up in the bed of someone who should not have your number.

A text gets sent that probably shouldn’t. Someone else doesn’t hesitate.

You could go anywhere.

Home, for good.

Home, but not alone.

Somewhere louder. Somewhere quieter. Someone you’ll regret. Someone you won’t.

This is the part of the night that no one talks about. Not the night itself — but what follows in the grey area between dusk and dawn. What starts when everything else ends.

The music disappeared, but so has the version of you that was leaning on it. And so is the version of you that needed it.

What lingers now is simpler. Less filtered. Truthful, a little reckless.

A wise-ish man once said nothing good ever happens after 2 AM. But it’s a quarter to 3 and the possibilities are seemingly endless.

The question remains — where are we going?

Who are we going with?

Should we call a cab?

Should I call out of work?

My phone is ringing. Unknown number.

This is Afters.