The Sunday morning fog had cleared, giving rise to rays of warm shunshine that kissed the heads of people in elaborate costumes, shining down on them like little personalized spotlights as they paraded through the streets. The gutters and sidewalks were littered with discarded cans of beer and red party cups. Girls wearing almost nothing flaunted their youthful bodies with felicity, flirtatiously. The air was festive and excited, exhilirated by the city-wide masquarade. The only thing moderating the merriment was a fast approaching Monday morning, pitched straight from the mound, racing toward the plate. We knocked it out of the park.
Once night fell there was dancing. And rule breaking. Smoking indoors, up in the balcony, beneath the no-smoking sign; reefer. More dancing, marveling, a manic clapping and stomping and then capsizing, a riproaring finale that set fire to the dance floor. It was hypnotic and wild, a standing stampede entranced, swinging and swaying rapturously, heels and boots thudding against the ground madly, trampeling over time.
Sore feet, aching muscles and a tired mind are all that remain - the sole survivors of the weekend.
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