Dance in the Dark

The only time you will see something will be that instant when the light bounces off the wall of the party hall, and that silhouette, standing there, hands gripping on the stair’s metal rail; you never get to notice the entirety of the shadow, the light goes off again and all you remember will be balustrades, not legs, the billow of smoke coming out of the mouth or around the place. Then there will be this automatic engine inside of you, that your hands will collide with all the thorny and rough barks of skin: elbows, hips, spine, arms, and shoulders; that there will be no need for eyes to guide you in this forest of disco moon and its laser beams; that there will be a heartbeat, you hear it thumping like bass, getting closer and more violent (as violent as a Martini glass spilled drink on your shoes and shattered glass on the floor) until you will smell the cigarettes, smell the bleach from the hair. You will feel the same coldness of the drink on your feet with the metal rails gripped by your palms and the nervousness that led to speechlessness, afterwards, the motion and the heat of the body dancing, the unexpected kisses landing on your cheek, neck, collarbone, hands ripping your shirt into two, losing buttons, and that coldness again, but never mind, you will be in euphoria. And that moment will pass as the lights turn on again, the body will be gone and you will recognize yourself as a monster.

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