My heart races when I hear music. My life seems like it has a purpose. My feet begin to move, and then I start to sway, slowly. Slowly. Then my body begins to move and the music consumes me. Soon, I’m dancing as fast as I can.
Other people join in. I love that – being able to inspire other people to get up off their asses and dance – what the fuck else is life for, anyway?
And then it happens. Someone starts to move to my beat. He’s closer than I want him to be. I fight it at first. I turn around, close my eyes and keep dancing, shutting him and the rest of the world out – pretending that the music is for me and me alone. But he insists, and I give in.
We dance.
People stop dancing just to watch us. You guys are perfect.
And then it happens.
My feet stop moving. It feels strange – as though the music is not my own any more. Not my style. When did I learn those moves?
I’m doing it just to keep up with him. I can’t. I shouldn’t.
I turn around again, and close my eyes, trying to shut him out. But it’s too late. He’s there.
Arms collide. Soon, we’re stepping on each other’s toes. It begins to hurt. I want him to disappear. I don’t want to stop dancing, but he’s having such a good time it feels like it’d kill him to stop.
But if I stop he stops. So I start to pretend like I’m enjoying it. But it’s not my style. When did I learn that move?
I withdraw, just a little bit. And then a little bit more. And soon I’m standing and watching from the sidelines. I can hear the music but I can’t dance.
Someone else asks me to dance. I’m nervous at first, but I look at other women are wearing dresses and surely-uncomfortable pointy high-heels. They are dancing gracefully, almost gliding across the dance floor while I feel like a klutz.
But of course their feet hurt, coz high heels are not meant for dancing; they don’t let you the freedom you need to truly dance. I, in my tee and shorts and shoes ought to give it another try. I can do better. I deserve better.
We dance.
People stop dancing just to watch us. You guys are perfect.
And then it happens. Again.
He wants me to dance with him. Move with him like we’re one body. But we’re not, and I’m starting to feel cramped and the colliding limbs aren’t helping.
He’s puzzled. It’s like we’re suddenly dancing to different tunes.
I don’t know what to say to him. It’s not really his fault I feel like I should just dance alone.
My life is a fucking nightclub, and I’m starting to feel out of place.
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P. S. This post was written in less than ten minutes.
Anawnimiss 