The first time I went to Space Lounge was this past August. I was already turnt by the time I got there after the evening party of one of my friends who had had a wedding. The place was packed to the rafters.
Most of the night was a blur. I vaguely remember bumping into old school mates, seeing one of them smoke shash openly, and sipping what I think was Jameson and Coke.
The hangover the following day was exquisite. I felt disembodied by the pounding in my head, the bone-deep exhaustion and my sandpaper-dry mouth. I was too knackered to even drink water.
That weekend triggered a close friend to voice her concerns about my drinking. Admittedly, it had been slowly getting out of hand. Her lashing helped me pull myself back. I was too close to the edge of the abyss.
Later in the following week, I was told by one of my friends, who did not come with us and somehow still had the information, in drunkenness I had broken shisha pipes. He said, laughingly, since there is CCTV at Space, the next time I went there, I might be charged for the damages.
Well, I went there again a few months later. Nothing happened. I danced and had a lovely time with my cousins. I was pre-juiced, although not as much as the other time and I had the good sense to drink water. However, there was a niggling dread in my stomach I was not supposed to be there.
I feel guilty for supposedly breaking the shisha pipes. Some deep part of me knows one day, somehow, I will pay for what I destroyed. When I learned Space was raided and closed for flouting city by-laws on noise, I could not help but feel an unadulterated smug glee which suffused through me and made my skin tingle.
I should not have been thrilled. Someone is out of a business and goers-out are one less place to go out. Yet I am glad because this just might be my dubious escape from the consequences of my drunken shenanigans.