On the Down Low
By J.M. Snyder
Music pulsed through my small apartment like
a rapid heartbeat. Shadows moved to the hip-hop rhythm, damp bodies
dancing in the smoky darkness. Powerful bass drowned out voices and
shuddered windows. From the closed bathroom door came the bitter
scent of m*******a.
I moved through the crowd with the hood of my
jacket pulled up to cover my straight, blonde hair and pale face.
My hands were balled into fists and shoved deep into the jacket
pockets. I kept my gaze on the floor and my shoulders hunched, well
aware of the color of my skin, such a contrast at a party like
this. Twice stray elbows caught me in the ribs but both times I
ignored the jabs. When a high-pitched laugh pierced the music, I
ducked down further into my jacket and wished I could
