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The party feels like the end of the world. I mean it. I hide in the club’s corners, inhaling air mixed with the omnipresent cigarette smoke. I let the night suck the life out of me and offer a game of appearances instead. All the people around me are total strangers, circulating near the bar like moths around a lamp. They die at dawn, then resurrect after three hours of sleep to go back to work.

I need more courage in life—that’s why I’m here, wandering around the club maze. I have suspicions about a certain man, whom I’ve seen sitting at the bar. Is he the one I think he might be? If yes, why is he here? And, who is he outside of this club? Who was he before he made a choice to escape everyday reality and hide here?

I know I shouldn't walk up to him. I tell myself that he's a mirage, that he doesn't really exist. I want to believe that he’s one of the smoke projections. Smoke reveals him to me, to tell me something. Something I have to figure out, despite the alcohol buzzing in my head. Something that will help me change.

I sit at the other side of the bar. There is nobody between us, so the man instantly notices me. As soon as our gazes meet, he quietly gets up, intending to approach me. He's like a shred of a ghost—a shred, because I imagine the spirits to have precise edges, while he's blurred. I look down and nervously play with the straw in my drink. Ice cubes clink against each other, and my heartbeat feels nearly as loud. Clink, clink, clink. I want to ignore him, but I can’t, not when he’s standing next to me, waiting for me to look up at him, which I reluctantly do.

He’s tall, self-confident, nonchalant. His hair is flawlessly styled: a brush-up matched with a low, tapered fade. And he dresses spectacularly: a psychedelic purple jacket covers his black t-shirt and contrasts interestingly with his moonstone-colored trousers and Vans shoes.

He seems to have an I rock the world attitude; all he needs to do is sit next to somebody and offer them a fancy cocktail. He’s that type of guy.

I am not.

“Want a drink?” He breaks the silence. His voice is velvety, and at the same time, it tells me he smokes. “I remember your face.”

“I remember yours too,” I respond.

“Maybe alcohol will refresh our memories,” he comments and gives a signal to the waiter. A few seconds later, a metal tray with vodka shots oozing pink and purple is placed in front of us. We start drinking, and I try to put him in different periods of my life. It’s not easy, as I’m heavily drunk already, and everything mixes up in my mind.

“What’s your name?” he asks me finally.

And here we are, introducing ourselves to one another like two totally unrelated strangers.