This Hour. /prose

[More memories of a good night out]


We are scuffing the floor with old fashioned happiness. This is the type of joy that doesn’t judge anybody; that smiles warmly at everyone it meets, whether they have funny hair cuts, or not.

Catching the scent of an alternative tobacco on the breeze, I have that feeling in my stomach, like a warm weight settling and spreading, catching and rising…spring approaching despite the non existent degrees outside. This selection of people – we made it through. We escaped somehow – amazingly – the part where your mind becomes null and you lose that part of yourself that is freedom personified. We, the people, assume candidly that we have nothing to say, speak only in humble tones. Are not often listened to. But tonight, we are heard. Oh yes. We are heard up the street, through the alley ways; strangers peer in on us and decide with one glance that our gathering of all sorts and queerfolk is not to their taste.

That’s alright. Let them pass. For it is only for our benefit, this hour. It’s a precious hour of liberty, to break free, where music allows the roof to rise and swell, the people, introvert and extrovert alike, gather to tap their feet, to raise their glasses. To exist in a remarkable place where the pain of the improbable or the seemingly impossible is forgotten. Discarded somewhere between the door on arrival, the bottom of the glass you drink from, and the lively hub that is the dancefloor.

Where sharp features, blue eyes, and an unforgiving smirk seem much less defined in your mind than in weeks gone by, or in the dreams you can’t yet shake.

And then in the morning, not ten days following the equinox, when the British Summertime formally arrives…where we ‘lose’ that precious hour…we shall know where this hour went. We will remember it.

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