the dancer

He danced in his bedroom.

Alone.

At the weekend.

Silly man.

Crazy man.

Lonely man?

The song was good. You can’t beat Gloria’s philosophy – the rhythm is gonna get you.

Can’t fight it.

And so, the rhythm got him, bit him like the girl he loved used to bite him, mid-coital, in a dream, on a lazy Sunday afternoon in a bed.

That hurt.

Her smile.

His smile.

Their smiles.

He danced and danced and danced.

And laughed.

Silly man.

Crazy man.

Lonely man.

He didn’t think about much, only that he wanted a beer.

So he hurried down the flight of stairs, into the kitchen and came to his fridge.

Still dancing.

There was beer.

He took a stubbie, flipped the top open, enjoyed the tsh sound and bopped back up the stairs.

The music was coming to an end.

He pressed repeat… and again and again.

And he danced.

Not thinking, just dancing.

How good it is not to think.

Just a song and the want to dance.

But how long can you dance for?

What then when the music stops, in the silent aftermath?

So he drank and he danced until…

Until…

 

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