Somebody walks up to me and extends his left hand.

‘Hey man, I think I know you.’

‘How do you know me?’

‘I have seen you around, everywhere: Meedo’s, Polo Bar, Great Value, Quest, here. Where are you headed after this?’

I say I don’t have a clue.

He says, ‘Hop on then, we’re off to Quest.’

‘No girls,’ I complain; ‘No girls . . .’ he replies, ‘Yes, no girls . . . so what?’

I turn to Robin and ask for the bill.

‘Sure,’ says Robin. ‘Quest is getting to be dangerous,’ he warns me. ‘Too many guys, no? They are going to have a fight one of these days. No crowd,’ he tells me, ‘no crowd.’

I hop on.

It’s a black Honda scooter. I sit in the middle. The man in front, the one in the driver’s seat, smells of sweat. The one behind me, the one riding pillion, has got his penis adjusted along the upper crack of my backside. I’m going dancing with men.

The sun plays tricks with the sky. The sky is anything but blue.

The men I’m with are men to whom I would ordinarily have nothing to say. They come from business families. Their fathers own motor spare parts shops and television showrooms, deal in wholesale goods.

It’s dark inside Quest. It’s full of men in their twenties. Everyone is smoking.

There is a lone girl on the floor. She has long silky black hair. Another girl soon joins her.

There is a third girl. She’s with her reticent boyfriend. When the DJ plays her request, she tugs at his sleeve, tries to drag him to the fluorescent edge of the floor. He refuses. She takes the lead each time but succumbs to his hesitance. She does this again and again until she finally succeeds. The men sitting at the bar turn around and watch the couple dance. The boyfriend dances jerkily. He doesn’t look happy. His partner sways her hips, thrusts her breasts out, throws her hands up in the air. She seems to be enjoying the attention.

Another couple walks into the bar. They are probably not a day older than fourteen. The boy wears an undersized T-shirt and cargo pants. He seems familiar with the place. They sit at a table close to the DJ’s booth, order vodkas and light up. On the table next to them, a man in dark glasses sits nursing a beer. He wears a flowery shirt; his hair is cut short in front, is long at the back. He sits absolutely still. His legs do not shake, his hands do not fidget. The strongest wind will not ruffle his hair. He could be cast in stone.