Jimmy Ruffin and the pursuit

And it happened yet again. The slow-motion moment in the midst of chaos.
I'm at Ultra on Friday night dancing like a psycho in celebration of, I don't know - life, when some guy and his slightly less attractive but equally coiffed campus-sheik, wingman approach.
It is clear these lads are not just passing by, but have stopped with purpose - a motivation as to why they choose to stand right there, where I in front of them am flailing so carelessly.
They lean in. My dancing tames however briefly, and I perk an ear. The boy starts, "How's your mother?"
And just as Kanye breaks it down, and the Brazillian dancers sh-shakin' it on the risers hollar a "hells ya", I get sucked back into the dance floor, with nothing more than a suspicion and a hope that I heard him wrong.

Later... in the haze, I consider to myself if this vagrant interaction actually occurred. And although only moments had passed, the booze and exertion distorts my internal clock. It could have been five minutes, it could have been fifty. Or even fifty-two. And as if I imagined it all, the two guys appear yet again, and just as I remembered them. Short and Abercrombie.
I close my eyes for a second, I need to concentrate on the question.
I look at his face, it focuses in and out. His lips are moving but I don't hear what he's saying. In fact, they're moving too slow for reality. It's stalled. A time-lapse. And that Kid Cudi song featuring MGMT starts playing, not in the club, but in a bull-pen circumferencing my head. Thick and stretchy, a theoretical mass that keeps me a foot and a half distant at all times. A foot and a half is a large space between my heart and the world. A terrible flaw.
"How's your mother?"
I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood the question, "What?"
He repeats himself, "How is your mother?"
My face falls. After I unapologetically answer with the simplest, although some would argue morbid statement, there are no other words to describe their reaction than bumbling. Fumbling. Morons. Full of sorries, inching away from the black hole that surrounds me, swallowed yet again into the crowd. Their faces barely making an impression in my mind.
I only remember the idea, not the face. Isn't that sad?
Even after the moment it happened. Isn't that sad?
And then I realize, Kid Cudi's become Jimmy Ruffin. Out of sync with the bumpers and grinders all around, but a perfect melody in my head. "Yes, Jimmy," I think to myself. "What does become of the broken-hearted?"
I stand there, as we slowly zoom out to a wide shot.

Indeed, one soul too heavy for a Hot Mess.
But nearly so.

Lo