Slammed

here," he says.
     
    "How old do you have to be to get into clubs here?" I ask, still observing the group of out of place children.
     
    "Well, tonight it's not a club," he says as we scoot into the booth.
     
    It's a half circle booth facing the stage so I scoot all the way to the middle to get the best view. He moves in right beside me.
     
    "It's slam night," he says. "Every Thursday they shut the club down and people come here to compete in the slam."
     
    "And what's a slam?" I ask.
     
    “ It's poetry," he says as he smiles at me. "It's what I'm all about."
     
    Is he for real? A hot guy who makes me laugh and loves poetry? Someone pinch me. Or not; I'd rather not wake up.
     
    "Poetry, huh?" I say. "Do people write their own or do they get it from other authors?"
     
    He leans back in the seat and looks up at the stage. I can see the passion in his eyes when he talks about it. "People get up there and pour their hearts out just using their words and the movement of their bodies," he says. "It's amazing. You aren't going to hear any Dickinson or Frost here."
     
    "Is it like a competition?" I ask.
     
    "It's complicated," he says. "It differs between every club. Normally during a slam, the judges are picked at random from the audience and they assign points to each performance. The one with the most points at the end of the night wins. That's how they do it here, anyway.”
     
    "So do you slam?" I ask.
     
    "Sometimes. Sometimes I judge, sometimes I just watch."
     
    "Are you performing tonight?"
     
    "Nah. Just an observer tonight. I don't really have anything ready."
     
    I'm disappointed. It would be amazing to see him perform on stage. I still have no idea what slam poetry is, but I'm really curious to see him do anything that requires a performance.
     
    "Bummer," I say.
     
    "You want something to drink?" he says.
     
    "Sure. I'll take some chocolate milk."
     
    "Chocolate milk? Really?"
     
    "With ice."
     
    " Okay ," he says as he slides out of the booth. "One chocolate milk on the rocks coming right up."
     
    While he's gone, the emcee comes to the stage and attempts to pump up the crowd. No one is in the back of the room where we're seated, so I feel a little silly when I yell 'yeah!' with the rest of the crowd. I sink further into my seat and decide just to be a spectator for the remainder of the night.
     
    The emcee announces it’s time to pick the judges and the entire crowd roars, almost everyone wanting to be chosen. They pick five people at random and move them to the judging table. As Will walks back to the booth with our drinks, the emcee announces it's time for the 'sac,' and chooses someone at random.
     
    "What's the sac?" I ask as he hands me my drink.
     
    "Sacrifice…It's what they use to prepare the judges," he says as he slides back into the booth. Somehow, he slides even closer this time.
     
    "Someone performs something that isn't part of the competition so the judges can calibrate their scoring."
     
    "So they can call on anyone? What if they would have called on me?" I ask, suddenly nervous.
     
    “ Well, I guess you should have had something ready,” he says as he smiles at me.
     
    He takes a sip from his drink then leans back against the booth, finding my hand in the dark. Our fingers don't interlock this time, though. Instead, he places my hand on his leg and his fingertips start to trace the outline of my wrist. He gently traces each of my fingers, following the lines and curves of my entire hand. His fingertips feel like electric pulses penetrating my skin.
     
    "Lake," he says quietly as he continues to trace up my wrist and back to my fingertips with a fluid motion. "I don’t know what it is about you…but I like you."
     
    His fingers slide between mine as he takes my hand in his and turns his attention back to the stage. I inhale and reach for my chocolate milk with my free hand, downing the entire glass. The ice feels good against my lips. It cools me off.
     
    They call on a young woman who looks to be around twenty-five. She announces that she is performing a piece she wrote titled 'Blue Sweater.’ The lights are lowered as a spotlight is positioned on her. She raises the microphone and steps forward, staring down at the floor. A hush sweeps over the audience and the only sound in the entire room is the sound of her breath, amplified through the speakers.
     
    She raises her hand to the microphone, still staring down to the floor. She begins to tap her finger