They are all dancing to nothing.
That is what it looks like from where I stand, near the wall, where the coats are piled warm from bodies that just took them off. Forty people swaying and stomping on the floorboards, mouthing words, throwing their arms up at some crescendo, and no sound at all. Just the shuffle of socks, the squeak of a sneaker, someone laughing too loud because they cannot hear how loud they are.
Little glowing headphones on every skull, each person sealed inside their own private song.
I remember thinking silence was the enemy. I would have paid, once, for a quieter room, a slower night, a party that ended sooner. Now I would give anything to be trapped in a bad song I did not choose, pressed shoulder to shoulder in a warm crush of people, sweating, thirsty, my ears ringing so hard I would carry the hum home to bed.
Look. That one there, in the green shirt, has closed his eyes and is singing to a woman who cannot hear his song, only see his mouth move. She is laughing at the shape of the words. She has no idea what he is listening to and it does not matter. They found each other in the same silence and are dancing to two different things, close enough that their sleeves keep touching.
They will not remember this night. It will blur into all the ordinary Fridays, unremarkable, forgotten by spring.
Oh, keep it. Keep the squeak of the floor and the too-loud laugh and the borrowed warmth of the coats. Dance to whatever you like.
You cannot hear me, and I would only say: you are so lucky, and so heavy, and so here.