A familiar black-faced, diamond adorned watch bounced up and down on a fist a few fists down from me. As I watched its silver band reflect the neon pink, purple and orange hues of the techno lights, I felt as though I had a 106 degree temp. How could you still be wearing the watch I gave you for Christmas when we had been apart for months now? You were wearing the same black pinstriped shirt you did the first time you took me to a club, and I was wearing the same metallic silver dress. I tried to ignore you.
Then Tiesto remixed 'Use Somebody.'
And my mind drifted to you turning it up as we turned onto Brickell Avenue after a night out in the Grove. To me giggling, explaining how you were the only person I would ever 'use' when the song came on in a club in Trinidad. It was ours, and in an instant a song made the uncomfortable, comfortable, the unfamiliar, familiar, the mystery, the known.
When I laid my chest on your black v-neck that night, covered in the same chocolate sheets that used to be mine, I think some part of me knew we were still using each other.