Between two things

I slipped away from the group, past the tower of stacked chairs, brushing my hands along the wicker curtain (as one must), down the stairwell with graffiti and the stale smell of smoke and pussy. At least, that's how I remember it. I squatted carefully, avoiding the not-so-pristine surfaces, when the shouting started. Left again to choose between different kinds of distress. Fucking holding the position with trembling muscles while emptying what felt like four litres of excess fluid wasn’t challenge enough?! There is no stopping midway, no matter how hard they try.