Autocorrect is a witch, isn’t it.

We never drink too much. And there’s barely any alcohol in the drinks they serve here. But that’s enough to get us dangerously disinhibited.

What else to talk about in a nightclub but your favorite video games?

Nerd or pro? Or both? What I know is, the game is less than three years old, and I only have a thousand hours clocked myself.

I blame that one last drink for the finger guns. Terrible, terrible imitation of the in-game guns, Azalea.

The flirt don’t stop.

… Oh hai Romain.

Sometimes, when you’re absolutely busted, you gotta accept it. And talk about Maths. Or Physics. Or anything, really.

At least until everyone’s distracted again.

The paradox of loud places is that you can shout at each other and be sure no one else will ever hear. The auditive version of hiding in plain sight.

We get tired of throwing balls straight into gutters, so we climbed upstairs. There are tables for clients there, and we sit around one of them, the six of us. Six of us in three different conversations. We shout over the music, we talk about everything and anything. I think Romain and Marie are debating attending a concert in San Myshuno. Charlotte is telling Shanna about the fashion business she’ll be starting once she graduates.

Hugo and I start talking about video games. The ones we love, the ones we loathe, and how we would improve those. How we’ve already improved some. It turns out we share a lot on this subject. We’re passionate, and so is our conversation.

Then evolves and sways into some different territories. The music is loud, and no one else is really paying particular attention to us.

Hugo announces that he’s going to get us some drinks, and I follow him.

Six teenagers, one table, three conversations, twelve ruptured tympans.

Marie and Hugo debating a topic I know next to nothing about. For once, I don’t really care. That much.

I’m absorbed in discussing my own passions, with someone else.

… Or maybe just discussing passion.

Parched from us talking too much, Romain gets up to go to the bar. I debate with myself for a full second.

… Then I follow him. And no one seems to notice or care much.

At the Essence of Simties, the lights go out at Midnight, and we enter Nightclub lighting.

And then everything seems different. The lights are dimmer but the feelings are grow tenfold. The music and the lights, and the potential cocktails — something starts thrumming under your skin.

It’s a moment out of time, out of the world.

It’s another world entirely.

Whatever Marie and I said to each other under the loud Disco tunes, it was none of what both of us actually wanted to discuss.


I’d be lying if I tried to pretend I wasn’t fully aware of Hugo’s gaze on me. I’d also lie if I said I wasn’t taking advantage of that knowledge.

… Unfortunately, this is what happens when you’re more focused on how your backside looks than actually throwing the ball correctly. Hugo did not comment…

… But our eyes met. He was smiling. So was I.

… One alley per bad player, probably the best way to avoid ridicule after all?

Grandma tried to teach me to bowl when I was a kid. But when I enter the Essence of Simties, I suddenly realize how far back in time these lessons now seem.

I’m the leader of a group of teenagers, and at that moment, I’m painfully aware I’m about to get absolutely ridiculed. But then I look around — and it is very clear that none of us have any idea what they got themselves into. Tacitly, we agree that we’re ready to get very ridicule, very fast, together. And we march into the bowling alley as if we owned it.

Which, surprisingly, none of us do.

… This is going to be a disaster.

Shanna sent her ball straight into the gutter. Marie, in the background, looks uncharacteristically happy, I must say.

…

There was an attempt.

The ball won’t defeat me. Determined as ever, I know I’m getting better at this as the evening progresses.

Marie and Romain, talking in the background. What are they talking about? Is he making her laugh?

As I go for my attempt at a Spare (or in this case… my attempt at touching any  pin, really), I hear Charlotte join their conversation, and I thank her silently.

Six pins go down. Marie misses the whole thing in favor of whoever’s Smistagram she suddenly chose to stalk.

Terrible at bowling, but great at being friends.

On our second evening at the Air Complex, after a day spent decorating our respective bedrooms, we have to decide what to eat. Ramen noodles and pizza to order sound boring. We had that the day before, when we collapsed on the couch at 10PM, burdened by the exhaustion of a thousand boxes carried from car to Complex. Or, more accurately, two boxes each.

What does not sound boring, on the other hand, is the Essence of Simties Bowling Alley.

So we all agree; and just like that, without the need of a group chat, a complex gymnastic in organization, or the smallest hint of parental authorization, off we are.

The Essence of Simties stands out in its neighborhoods. In that part of Willow Creek, there is a quaint wedding venue; a diner that pretty much looks like a giant strawberry sundae, and a lone, long-deserted suburban house. And then there is this big black box with flashing neon signs. It towers over the whole neighborhood. In fact, it is the tallest building for miles around, and it is so very… black.

And it’s the perfect teen hangout.