Malik Thompson

House lights up. Floor empty. One blue beam still hitting the mirror ball because I was not ready to end it.

They do notice when it fails. Tape it, label it, protect the exit, then make the room feel impossible.

Blackout curtains closed. Phone on silent. Upstairs neighbor beginning a complete renovation of Europe.

Deleted thirty-seven clever cues. Left the red wash. The singer suddenly had somewhere to stand.

My friends know noon is disrespectful. Candles at three twenty-six, sunglasses indoors, one voicemail from the venue asking where the blue cable lives.