they get an itch for Mitch
I think the night before major holidays is the worst.
It’s the time that the work that Mitch does is most important.
So many girls.
Looking for a loan amongst the teeming sea of the bankrupt.
Dancing to the beat, looking to make deposits of their own.
To keep the same sharks from their door.
So the girls, withdrawn for most of the calendar, head out looking for some affection.
And they reject and accept, use and get used, all under the strobe and smoke of the establishments looking to profit from their holes.
The gyrations of borrowed time.
Every song singing the same tune.
So Mitch heads out into the emotional maelstrom to be a lighthouse and provide a light.
Mitch the Kind.
Mitch the Generous.
To buy them a drink, “any port in a storm” he’ll say to none in particular, and ask them to dance and try to soothe a single soul.
The lasik surgery helped.
As did the braces.
The dance lessons certainly didn’t hurt.
Although nobody tangos anymore.
Probably because it sounds too much like tangled.
In the military tango means “target”.
You can always count on the military to add a dash of irony to a story.
Low-cut tops act as life preservers and the occupants bob up and down in time to music, hoping that someone sees they’re drowning.
Life guards hover like groomed mirages, eager to give mouth-to-mouth before disappearing without even checking for a pulse.
Invented for the task.
And so it goes, every night before a major holiday.
For so many girls.
The screaming longing smothered and bottled and mascaraed and smiling.
Hoping that they find Mitch amongst the throbbing crowds of the lonely.
Mitch the Savior.
Hoping that the club plays their favorite song.
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