Dancing with the Devil

Fermenting a setting/
Determining a local/
The topology of a tragedy:

Fucking beautiful night. Cold like the prettiest damnedest hearts.
Obscure party. The kind of party that is horrible in a wonderful way or excellent in a post- ironic one.
Fucking decent music. 
You know how rare that is?
Really fucking rare.
Really really fucking rare.
One of the rarest , beautifulest things in life, is a god- damned party with some god- damned decent music.
'Nough said.
Intoxicated bitch. "Bitch" not in the sexist way. "Bitch" as in "life is a bitch". As in powerful woman "she be a bitch".
"See that bitch over there? You better fucking watch that bitch. Oh, you better fuckin'."
Intoxicated with alcohol. Beautiful, beautiful alcohol. The goddess Ethanol, father vodka, mother tequila, brother whiskey.
The kind, giving, nurturing alcohol that sweetly tacks you into bed at night after giving you a kiss on your childish, innocent forehead.
The kind that fucking makes you happy for a night, and nothing else matters because you can fly, and fuck that world, because dancing your soul out to decent music in an obscure party utterly pissed
,is bliss,
and it doesn't matter if you live to see the light of day on the morrow.
Red, blue and green lights painting the cigarette-fog. Mostly dark. Mostly music.

Prefatio: There have been words upon words describing the effect of the female image through the centuries. I do not want and cannot and will not dare to compete.  This is not Shakespeare’s or Byron' s  view of a woman. This is back-to-the-basics-teenage-like-simple words, ungarnished feelings of the heart and the mind and the dick.

Also, fuck beauty.

Fuck saying "she was a beautiful woman", or sweating to produce the effect of her beauty.

So fucking overdone.

Everybody knows 

you dance like you fuck,

 you dance like you fuck,

you dance like you fuck

She was surrounded by everyone but was clearly alone in some other world mostly materialized by music.

She moved the way some women can, and unwillingly hypnotize your soul for the rest of eternity.

There is this thing about a woman

that dances solely for herself,

giving zero fucks if anyone's noticing,

giving zero fucks about what she looks like or what her presence will make others feel like; 

and no, I am not finishing this sentence with a preposition.

Look at her, look at her.

I don't wanna tell you what she looks like; it's so boring describing a specific brand of a specific person with specific characteristics, and colours, and shapes,

being specific is really fucking boring.

Vagueness is the new black.

It's a human being who identifies as a woman.

Anything else is on the table, imagination-wise.

I watched her. I certainly did.

She never saw me, but I did.

She was dancing alcohol-free-of-cares-in-the-world, her hands, her breasts, her hips, her skin, her hair,

all of her dancing and swerling,

snake-like movements,

as if trying to communicate with some ancient God or make it rain on the dance-floor.

Her eyes were closed.

Her lips were painted red like the blood that was rushing 

through my veins 

                   to my heart,

                   to my brain,

                   to my dick.

This way,

this way sometimes a woman can move, and the

hands,

the neck,

the breasts,

the waste, 

the feet,

the hips,

the ass,

the skin, her skin can make you lose your capacity to think in words, and then only one feeling is left and it is

"touch, touch, touch, touch, I wanna touch this, I wanna touch this till my heart stops beating and I cease to exist".

I swear I could have gazed at her all night.

But something happened.

She was dancing

and then she just stopped.

Not as anyone would normally end a movement.

She stopped as if someone had pressed "pause". She froze in her place in a paralytic manner.

She moved her head with the slightest motions as if trying to listen to something, statuesque from the neck down, her palms open wide and stiff on her sides, not touching her torso.

Her eyes still closed.

On her previously serene face appeared a hint of grimace.

then she started trembling, faintly, then ,progressively, it became more visible. The graduality of the situation. All these motions happening one after the other, appearing first shyly, then firmly, taking over the previous image that was luring my mind. An acceleration was taking process. Her body was rapidly changing a modus vivendi. Her skin became whiter, her chest started moving heavily.

Then she opened her eyes.

I have never seen anyone look like that.

She was obviously staring into the abyss.

I could almost hear her mind pounding at her with the force of a starved sex maniac after a long period of abstinence.

She stood there unable to move.

She looked like she was either about to die or epxlode like a grenade.

I was half-expecting her brain's white matter to hit my face at any time.

I wanted to help but I was nailed to the floor as well.

Then her eyes started running tears, without a noise, she put her hands to her ears to cover them and started denying some awful truth with her gestures.

"No, no, no" her lips were whispering.

"No, no, I don't want to hear this. This is not happening. Please stop talking to me. Oh , God, why. Not again."

She was silently crying a lot at this point.

She was devastated.

I was a coward.

The basement being dark and everyone busy, they did not notice her.

She furiously gathered her belongings.

She could barely walk.

She looked like she was defeated.

She was hearing something.
I never saw her again.