Last Friday night the Urban Lounge was filled with the usual crowd. Hipsters of every shape and size--thin and thinner--filled the smoky joint to hear a couple songs, do a little dancing. I was watching the bands do their little thing too.
There weren’t too many folks on the dance floor, so I could see close and comfortable a make out session par excellence. It looked uncomfortable and it made me uncomfortable too. It was like some amateur swingers had gotten together and didn’t quiet know what to do with themselves.
One couple macked on each other like they were zombies eating each others' faces off. Their pals played a little coy kiss me, kiss me not game and I, I had to watch. I tried not to watch. I didn’t want to participate in their achingly uncomfortable fun. But they were spreading like a sickness across the quickly emptying dance floor. They had apparently decided that the middle of a half empty dance floor was the best place to awkwardly make out. They had decided against one of the many dark little corners of the bar. I was afraid they might pull me into their vortex; their sappy, oh shucks-fest of teen French kissing oozing towards me like a sickness. It was like watching hypochondriacs wrestle, trying to pin each other while fearing with every touch that they may be infected. (Jonah Owen Lamb)