The strobe lights cast robotic shadows as the crowd seethes to the music.
‘Would you like to marry me? And if you like you can buy the ring—’ unusually joyous for Morrissey.
Girls and boys alike sing in a trance. Fantasising, swirling, hands aloft.
The girl inhales chocolate scented fog, feels tiny bubbles snap on her hot cheeks. Her cocktail spills.
The guy sways, long hair trailing in rivulets down his face. His paisley shirt is open and he’s dancing under the shower of bubbles. He’s glistening, reaching, exaggerating his moves.
Later they kiss and smoke a joint on the Kingswood’s benchseat. She’ll take the lift, but he can’t come in.
