Social Club

Bronwen Eckstein

Loud enough to shout down civilities,
sixties music blasted the awkward silence as we
sidled into the hall, group by twitchy group.
In an instant our tiny Italian neighbour led Ben
a dance on the floor, whirling and gyrating,
he could hardly catch her.

A tap on my shoulder and I was tight
in the grip of a faceless stranger suddenly
soaring between steps, touching down
now and then like mercury running a river
of song and I forgot which feet were mine
or his as we dipped and spun like blown
glass, like a necklace of shimmering joy
sliding down velvet.

Everyone was watching.
Ben shut his gaping mouth and grabbed my coat.
The parking lot was white with anger.
Dizzy, the mercury dipped and dripped
off my fingers and my high heels crunched
the gravel like broken glass in my mouth.



LitNet: 19 April 2006

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