I’m fidgeting in my seat, thighs sticking to the vinyl bench. I peel one off leg then the other, gingerly – I know I will be repeating the process in five minutes. I curse my choice of skirt this evening; I froze in the line outside the club but once inside my legs melded with the furniture. The slit that looked alluring while I was standing up, showing a generous flash of thigh, became a bit of a problem once I was seated. The stretchy material keeps creeping higher and to the side as we huddle in our booth. I eye you across the table as I shift again, losing yet another layer of skin on the backs of my legs.
You’re nervous, not sure where to look so your eyes keep darting around the room behind your mask. “What if I stare at someone and they think it’s an invitation?!” You had hissed n a near-panic before having the wristband system explained by the front desk clerk in a thick Québécois accent. We giggled as the paper bands were affixed to our wrists, but the unease wasn’t entirely fake. It was our first time at this particular type of club, and we were both excited and nervous. So nervous, in fact, that despite the available local options we had waited until a conference in far-off Montreal provided us with the option to explore without running into anyone we knew. Canada is full of “big little cities” and the idea of recognizing an acquaintance was enough to give us both pause.