Page 44 of (Not) The One
Last time I was here, there wasn’t an airport-style security checkpoint, but times change, I suppose. As I put my wallet and phone in the small grey tray I’m handed, the vibration of the music seems to make the walls and floor shake, the techno bass pulses through the soles of my feet as I stand on the threshold.
Jesus Christ, I forgot this place was so huge.
There are what? Two, three floors? Two for live acts and one, the main floor, for the house or visiting DJ.
It’s going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack in this cavernous place.
But look, I will.
At first glimpse, the main dance floor looks like a depiction of Dante’s Inferno, demonic forms writhing and begging for release, but then the lights change from red to blue, and the sight isn’t so Old Testament anymore.Some things don’t change, I decide. Wall-to-wall bodies, floors sticky from the overpriced and watered-down drinks that have spilled, the heat, the thump of techno bass, music so loud you can barely hear yourself think let alone carry on a conversation. All the same, the atmosphere is electric, a surge of endorphins washing through the space, keeping rhythm with the music.
And then, the impossible happens. Through the dark and through the crowds, I see her dancing like no one is watching, which is ridiculous. Because how can anyone not be riveted by her?
11
Miranda
This wasthe right thing to do. Crazy, yes, but better than keeping the crazy in. Better than taking the crazy to my parents’ home to be met by more crazy, where I’d just dwell on my lack of options and the fucking ring. I’d almost opened the window of the cab on the way over here and thrown it as far as my arm could make it go. But I didn’t—couldn’t. I can’t even do revenge very well.
I know I might’ve worried Heather, but I just couldn’t go home. I just couldn’t do it. So I shot out of the car, promising her I’d be safe, that I wouldn’t be alone. And I’m not. I’m here in a club with hundreds of other people. And it’s not like they’re all strangers. I know quite a few. Okay, so maybeknowmight be a stretch, but since I’ve arrived, several familiar faces have nodded as I’ve passed in thatsupkind of way.
Whatever. I needed this. It’ll be good for my soul.
Before Cameron—ha, BC—I’d spent many a night in this club with she-who-shall-not-be-named.Or peed on if on fire, come to that. Dancing and having fun, flirting with boys with skinny hips and messy hair, sometimes even kissing them in dark corners before dashing home in the wee hours, up and ready for work again after just a few short hours of sleep. God, those were easy times. When I lusted after boys with game and swagger, and the infatuations never lasted more than a few hours.
And then I met Cameron, and everything changed.
Maybe that’s why she fucked him. I wonder if this second chance is suiting her any better.
No, I don’t—fuck her and fuck him.
I’m not going to think about it, and I amnotheartbroken. I’m just disillusioned with manandwomankind. God, I’m so over feeling like this. Like my life is a runaway bus, and I’m just a passenger on it.
But I’m not going to think about any of it. I’m here to dance.
I loop my bag over my neck and slide the tiny rectangle to my hip before draining the bottle of water I’d managed to buy at the only bar, which was only three clubbers deep tonight. I drop the empty bottle on a table as I weave in and out of the crowds moving towards the dance floor. A heavy bass pounds through the soles of my feet, clawing its way up my body like a vine, a vine that draws tight across my skin as it demands me to move. It’s been so long since I’ve danced. And I don’t mean bopping around the kitchen, kibble or kitty food in hand, with my furry audience at my feet. I don’t mean tapping my feet or swaying my hips along to the radio as I wait for the kettle to boil at work either. I mean dancing, really dancing. The kind where you lose yourself to the music, conscious of nothing but the unyielding beat.
Stepping onto the dance floor is like dipping into a warm sea, being enveloped by a current and allowing it to carry you. I’m cosseted by the crowd, protected from feeling like a fool for dancing on my own because we’re all alone to some degree. Alone with the beat.
Despite what science says, dancing isn’t always linked to sex.
Except when it is.
Except when you’re thinking about the man with the peacock blue eyes, thinking about how much you wanted to climb across the table and make him kiss you, even just to make him shut his face before he tells any more lies.
Think of the handsome devil, and he shall appear? Not likely. Not the way my day is going. More like think of the devil, and your mind will play tricks on you, conjuring him up at the edge of the dance floor, all high cheekbones and taunting gaze.
It’s ridiculous. He’s not here. And neither is his doppelganger. It’s just strobe lighting and wishful thinking. He’s far too sophisticated to be in a place like this. Sticky floors and overpriced, watered-down drinks, flashing lights, and house music.
And even if he was, he made it clear he thinks I’m a silly little girl. We’ll fuck him.
Please.
Because I can feel his eyes on me, his gaze almost a physical thing.
Ridiculous. I find I’m smiling to myself. Talk about wishful thinking.
But then something happens almost cosmically. Don’t laugh, it’s true—the mass of dancers suddenly parts like the Red Sea. But he’s not Moses, and there’s nothing Old Testament about him, even if, given half a chance, I could go to hell for the sin of idolatry.
