Astrid Haerens: ‘To the night, one last time’

Over three weeks, a Brussels-based creative shares his or her view of the world. Astrid Haerens writes both prose and poetry. Her novel Stadspanters was published in 2017. Her poetry collection Oerhert will be published by Atlas Contact at the end of March. www.astridhaerens.be

On a Friday night in December, you are standing in the shell of a loft, an icy wind is blowing through the building making your pale, bare legs shiver, there is dust everywhere, the grey concrete walls are cold, you get changed: you take off your woolly trousers and put on a tight-fitting black suit, next to you is your girlfriend, she calls, she laughs and then, when you are ready, you walk hand-in-hand through the room, into the corridor, up the stairs, you walk past people sitting down in the corners talking, laughing, sleeping, kissing, you walk towards the still distant music which, with its deep banging, beckons you, you pull open a heavy door and are engulfed by vibrating, warm air, you step into a dark box, another universe, you see people, everywhere, acquaintances and strangers greet the two of you, you stand still and drown in a pair of bright green eyes, your girlfriend lets go of your hand and walks on alone, makes her way through the swaying, dancing mass, you smile, look at the shining eyes, the elegant nose, the moving mouth of the woman standing before you, ageless, you talk non-stop to her and she talks non-stop back to you, you seem to merge, time doesn't exist here, finally you embrace her, then let go of her again, meanwhile the beats have slowed down, they move languidly like molasses through the space, the group of people seems to move simultaneously from left to right, up and down, then there is whistling, cheering, this is a collective celebration, a euphoric feast for your battered lives, you dive deeper into the crowd, there is your girlfriend again, she is dancing in a trance with her arms in the air, her hair is wet and swishing around, you put your hand on her soaking, sinewy neck and squeeze it softly, in front of you there is a barefoot woman, jumping, seemingly galloping on the spot, wetness is splashing up from the ground, her legs are covered in mud up to her calves, behind you is your ex-lover and their girlfriend, they are wearing golden suits, they kiss each other and then embrace you, the three of you are now rocking back and forth, you want more and more and more of this, time is slow and lightning fast at the same time, you throw yourself into the air and let yourself fall into space, into time, you are lifted up and carefully put back down, you close your eyes and dance, this is the deepest, the peak of the night, the night as a place, as a hollow in which you can hide, can transform, nameless, faceless, genderless, this is the night as a state, as a condition, without conditions, here you store your congealed life in a corner of the room, the cruise control days are crushed one by one in the darkness, you walk on, sink down on a pile of cushions and start talking to someone but can only make out the mouth and a pair of eyes, you kiss a young mother who whispers her secrets in your ear, you look at her face, adventurous, whimsical, her lips twisting as she speaks to you, you get back up and walk outside, onto the terrace, a fur coat is wrapped around your shoulders, you drink from a thin, long glass, next to you are a tall person in a cowboy hat and a person with a leather kepi, they each smoke a cigarette silently and look towards the apartment buildings on the horizon, the horizon of this dozing city now slowly waking up, in the distance, a sun as yellow as a yolk appears, bathing everything in gold, there are seagulls screeching in the sky, you stand shoulder-to-shoulder with these warm bodies on the terrace, you watch cars setting off, the first trams passing, people with dogs stepping out onto the street, you look into the seamless stream of real life and you smile, turn around, returning to the night one last time.