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“So, she’s a fan then?”
“I grew up listening to your music. That shitty $5 greatest hits compilation you put out was my first CD. I bought it with my own money,” I admit.
Vince grins, “And you’re telling me this now?”
I shrug, “It never came up. Plus, it’s kinda embarrassing.”
“That’s not the word I’d use,” Vince says.
“Well, what would you call it?” I ask.
“Fated.”
I laugh and spear another forkful of pasta, “For a guy who thrives on chaos, you seem to put a lot of stock in fate.”
“I have a healthy respect for the supposed randomness of the universe. And I don’t think it’s embarrassing that you like my music. I think it’s sweet. Would it help you if I told you I spent my youth lusting after whip-smart tour managers who also seem to thrive in chaos?”
“There’s no way!” I say.
“So, what’s a bit of revisionist history? I should’ve. It would have saved me a lot of heartache,” Vince reaches across the table and grabs my hand. His hand is calloused and warm. I’ve grown to find comfort in the permanent callouses that decorate his fingers.
Vince signals for the check and pays. When we walk outside, a slight chill hangs in the air. I shiver involuntarily, and Vince slips off his blazer, draping it over my shoulders. It smells like pine and smoke. I slip my arms through the sleeves and secretly delight that I have to roll the sleeves up. At 6’4, Vince is the only person who’s ever made me feel petite.
Vince grabs my hand, and we wind through the busy streets. “It’s up to your left,” he says, pointing at a concrete staircase.
“Is it literally underground?”
“Yep. Welcome to the Spiral Jetty, the oldest goth club in the city.” Vince says. He leads me down the concrete steps, and I can hear the dreamy baseline of a no-wave song echoing through the tunnel as we step into the club.
The music draws us in; I recognize the electronic drone tones of a dark wave beat. All around us, couples in varying degrees of black leather and velvet twirl about the dance floor. Some women wear corsets. Some wear capes. Others are topless, save for leather harnesses and pasties. I see a woman leading a man around on a leash with a spiked collar.
“Is this a BDSM club?” I yell over the music.
“Only on Thursdays! The rest of the week, it’s the number one place for goths in all five boroughs!!” Vince yells back.
I laugh out loud as I notice a leather switch on the wall next to a signed photo of Siouxie Sioux from Siouxie and the Banshees.
“This is amazing!” I yell, “I love a good goth night! I used to go to a vinyl night in Pasadena that only played no-wave!”
“See? I knew you’d like it!” Vince yells back.
He grabs my hand and points out the photos on the wall: an alphabetized and autographed pantheon of goth greats: Robert Smith from The Cure, Peter Murphy from Bauhaus, and the Cocteau Twins. It’s like the world’s horniest music museum. I love it.
“This might be better than the MET,” I admit.
“It felt like this would be a bit more your scene. Do you want a drink?” Vince asks.
“Um, sure.”
We belly up to a glass bar that glows blue in the neon light. I ordered something with activated charcoal and violet-infused whiskey. Vince orders a mocktail called the Nosferatu.
“I think this might be a glorified Shirley Temple but fuck if it isn’t good!” Vince yells.
I take a sip of my drink; the whiskey tastes floral. There’s a real violet floating at the top. I’m tempted to fish it out and save it.
We finish our drinks just as a fast song starts, and Vince pulls me onto the dance floor. He dances like one of those inflatable tube men that decorate used car lots, waving limbs and body rolls. It’s somehow both silly and enchanting.
He closes his eyes to feel the music. I loop my arms around his neck and move my hips in time to the beat. His hands wander along my waist, cupping my ass before he pulls me in for a kiss.
