During the day, Club Deliquesce is like so many clubs on the island: An unassuming two-story building in grey or white rendering, blistered with air-con units and flanked by an electricity substation. During the night, bass seeps from the walls, animating the fairy- and neon-lit front with an insistent form of life as if the earth itself is inviting the queuing supplicants to dance. There is something primal and hallowed about it, if you ignore the giggling hen dos with their dealy-boppers and identical white dresses, the lads groups chanting football songs, and the furtive gentlemen standing by selling glow-sticks and little packets for a reasonable number of Euros.

I come to the door when you knock. Will I ever not smile when I first see you? I offer to take your coat, and when you point out you’re not wearing one, I offer to take your pants instead. You bap me on the shoulder and I place a kiss on your cheek. Music is coming from inside, and the scent of incense. An unfamiliar voice is singing to Billie Eilish, quite well.