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I’m sleepless in Beirut.

From the right corner of my eye, a male figure claims twice the space needed, flailing his limbs inarticulately, bellowing above the general hum of the place.

Attention-seekers, I’ll deliberately ignore you. If you’re a suicidal glass cup, you won’t get beyond the skin of my eardrum. If you’re a neon tracksuit, you won’t contaminate my retina. If you’re dancing like a failed audition, my neck will stiffen in the opposite direction. Keep your issues to your journal and your signals for the helpline.

I’m not heartless nor cruel. If you want to talk about it, I’ll seat you on my lap. Sorrow laced with outburst, troubles cast in plastic, tears made up with glitter; the truth is, you aren’t ready to.

He’s dancing against a woman, seeing how low he can go. Yamamoto and I are in deep conversation, wading through spiritual swamps, while the Messiah on the right clearly wants to descend from his divine kingdom unto our table. He even stops and stares, but we hope for once we’d resemble old lesbian spinsters.

“You don’t dance? You are very serious.”

“Yes we are.”

I finally look up. He looks like an I-lived-abroad-all-my-life-but-now-I’m-back-to-see-what-the-fuss-is-all-about type. Not having that conversation tonight, no thanks.

Minutes later, his head blocks the light again.

“Why are you so serious?”

Well, because for the past two hours I was immersed in a future of impending loss and confusion, discussing fight or flight, standing on the verge of a famished black hole.

“We are having a conversation.”

“I see. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Too late for that. Roll our eyes, psssht, pfffff. But then he’s back.

“Where are you from?”

“Here. You?”

“I recently moved to live by the sea, but now I’m renting an apartment here in Beirut. I love to dance! You want to dance?”

“No thank you.”

I look at my friend and daymn that girl has got the iris-kill-you vibe nailed to the eyelash. Immediately, I soften.

“What are you guys celebrating?”, I ask. Out of courtesy? Out of dire need to balance this moment? Most likely to avoid aggressive confrontation.

“We’re just out. I love dancing. We’re going to Behind the Green door in a few moments, you want to come?”

“Oh it’s very late, we’ll be going home soon.”

“Come on! Have some fun! We’ll dance! By the way, I’m not drunk, I know you think I am, but I’m drinking water. I promise.”

“Aha. You are very hyper for a water drinker.”

“Yes, and I pee a lot. It’s a big problem.”

Mhm. This interaction is going down the drain…

“What do you girls do?”

“Very serious things. You?”

“I have my own business.”

It was said with a confidence half a syllable short of arrogance, but then again, it could have been my jealous ears lusting for that kind of freedom in my own life.

“Shall we order the bill?”, leaned forward my unimpressed friend.

I handed the waiter my card, upon which Kavinsky exclaimed,

“You’re with X bank? Respect. I like you.”

What the hell dude, mellow down on the affiliations, I thought.

“Listen, I’m having a party at my house next week. You should come. You’ll love my home. It’s beautiful.”

To be honest with you, myself included, I only asked for more details in the hope of bumping into the cute guy, he had introduced me to moments earlier, at the said party. And that I could see the "beautiful" for myself.

At the time I was ashamed to admit it, for fear of appearing shallow or opportunistic, but why would somebody cast golden hooks if not to attract chrysophiles? 

Was he ignorant? I think not. But I was. I was ignorant not to ignore him. For the second time in my life I allowed myself to be intrigued by shiny things.

Intrigued by shiny! It was the very same intrigue reserved for tinted window panes. You're sort of curious, but helpless. Thus, even though you know he/she knows you can't see them, you stare back long and hard nonetheless, toy with their minds with a smile, or even a wink. Whatever it takes.

Kavinsky knew that there was no reason for me to accept his invitation other than for what he so blatantly represented, and I knew that he knew, so the plan was to stare back hard and pretend that there was nothing shiny blinding me.

I thought that after Clooney I'd know how to play this game, but to my surprise, this chocolate egg came not only with an unfamiliar toy but with bitter aftertaste.

I should've known, I should've known just as I know about suicidal glass cups, neon tracksuits and murders on the dance floor.