The Rhythm That Builds in the Wastes

She danced with joyous abandon in front of the band. Her eyes were closed, her lips were slightly open in a small smile, the music and her movement had given a becoming flush to her skin. In the dim concert lighting she glowed. She carried a picture of herself in her head, a picture of her perfect dance, and she fit her arms and legs and hips and stomach into the slots of the picture. Hands touched her, pressed insistent and approving upon her shoulders, along her arms, or glanced lightly from her hands, gave a momentary pivot as she swung around, but always she danced away from the hands, always her eyes were closed, always the picture in her head pulsed and bobbed to the song.

Intermission, and the lights came up slightly while the bands changed. She made her laughing, singing, hopping way to the bar, feet tripping along still to the melody that she carried in her head. Faces swam into and out of focus, and her eyes slid off of them like oil from a skillet.

She paid for her own drink, swallowed it quickly, lighting a fire in her belly that sang movement, and danced in the lights and the darknesses for the audience, unpaid, alone, unreachable, unconquerable, unclimbable.