The dark-haired man could hear the faint music pounding from the nightclub. The people in front and behind him were bouncing on their feet in anticipation, eager to enter the dark scene. They chattered and laughed, while some complained about having to wait in line. He stood still, wishing he were somewhere else. He didn’t like nightclubs; they were the worst places for business. Too many people and too much security. A buff security man as tall as the Manhattan skyline stood outside the concrete building, his face painted in a strange purple hue from the fluorescent lights above him. His expression remained stoic as he analysed each identification card, his eyes searching for any discrepancies or spelling errors, any birth dates that seemed too suspicious. The dark-haired man held his breath as he approached the entrance, hoping that the schedule he had been given was correct. He recognised the security man; the white scar that marred his left cheek marked his identity, contrasting greatly against the darkness of his skin. He had caught him doing business before. The clock on his phone read ten-forty-four in big white text. The security guard should be changing in three, two, one…

               He expressed his relief in the slight drop of his shoulders and small wisps of breath that turned white in the chill November air. It was quiet, subtle, and nearly non-existent. It was all he could show. He could not risk any attention. He had two strikes since his release, and a third would guarantee his return to prison. He did not want to go back. His nightmares consisted of dreary grey walls and bright orange jumpsuits. Hours spent alone in a cell longing for company and days wishing he had none. He did not want to go back. He did not want to be at the nightclub, he did not want to be dealing tonight, but business meant money, and money meant survival.

               The music pained his ears as he entered the nightclub, much louder than before. He could not words were intelligible, for they were drowned out by hysteric shrieks and drunken laughter.  The swaying of bodies and the clinks of shot glasses. His eyes roamed the scene for the inconspicuous figure of a person waiting for him, but the strobe lights moved around the room, offering little to no visibility in the dark purple lighting of the room. He checked his phone, squinting his eyes against the bright screen. His client had sent him a message telling him to go to the bathroom. He made his way through the crowd of bodies, the stench of sweat and alcohol assailing his nostrils, the music pounding louder against his ears. It was getting hotter, and he found it slightly harder to breathe. He regretted wearing a dark jacket, he could feel the thick material absorbing the heat of the crowd, but he knew it was the smartest decision.

               He covered his nose as he approached the bathrooms, the foul stench of vomit, urine, and other substances making his eyes water and his stomach lurch. He felt the tightening of his muscles and the acidic bile building up in his throat as he swung the flimsy white door open, entering a dimly lit room with cold white walls and stained floor tiles. The music muffled as the door closed behind him, sealing him and the blond man in the acrid room. His polished black suit read Upper East Side, and his shiny leather shoes spoke in hundred dollar bills. The dark-haired man wondered what a man of this sort was doing in this part of New York, but he asked no questions and conducted his business in his usual, silent manner. Whichever words were spoken, were said in hushed tones and in the subtle exchange of goods; a plastic Ziploc bag of green herbs passed from one hand to the other for a stack of two hundred dollars. The dark haired man left the nightclub without a word, and the blonde-haired man returned to his party of friends, all of whom were surrounding a brown haired man who wore a pink plastic crown that read ‘Bachelor’ in gothic writing.

               The blonde-haired man passed the Ziploc bag to his friend in the plastic crown, who looked up at him with insecure eyes. He was unsure about his friends’ idea, the very thought of it made his heart beat faster, his hands jitter, and his stomach tighten in apprehension. He mumbled a few protests, but they were muted by the beat of the music, and soon his party had convinced him otherwise. With shaking hands, he rolled up a blunt and inhaled the drug. He took another breath, and another one. His mind grew fuzzy, his heart relaxed, and soon everything seemed funnier. He did not know why he had been so worried, he was fine. He grabbed a few drinks and made unsteady steps to the dance floor, where his movements grew wobbly, lazy and strangely dramatic. His plastic crown had been lost on the journey to the dance floor, probably being kicked around by dress shoes and five-inch heels. He did not know what he was doing, but he was enjoying himself. He could feel the bodies pressing up against him, the smell of sweat and alcohol and something else…something fruity. Strawberries? He did not know what it was; all he knew was that a pretty girl in a red dress was holding his hand, leading him out the door, and that his friends were cheering him as he left the stuffy nightclub for the cold New York streets.

               A tall brick building stood tall in the heart of Queens. Though it was late, conversations could still be heard from the third floor window, accompanied by the rocking of trains whose constant rhythm gave the city a heartbeat. A mother smiled down at her sleeping children, gazing down at their moonlit faces. She carefully placed another blanket over them, protecting them from the harsh chill of the night. She pushed two strands of hair away from her sons’ eyes, kissed them on the forehead, and closed the creaking door behind her with a click. Quiet knocking against the door halted her soft footsteps against the carpeted floor and, with one eye closed, she looked through the peephole to see the dark-haired man waiting at her door. She greeted him with a worried smile; apprehensive as to what her brother was doing out so late. He ignored her questions and sat down on her sofa, rubbing his hands together to distract from the broken thermostat. With the slight movement of his arm, he gestured for her to sit by him and tell him about her day. He inquired about the wedding preparations and the whereabouts of her fiancé. Her answers grew soft and slow as she was lulled to sleep by the rocking of the trains outside and the rough hand of her brother petting her hair. When he was sure she was asleep, the dark-haired man rose from the sofa and put the two hundred dollars he had made from the sale into her wallet. The New York night held its many secrets, and this was one of them.

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This is a descriptive essay I wrote to practice my aesthetic writing. I hope you enjoyed it! Tell me what you think in the comments section, as I want to improve my writing.