Silver Sway

I saw Felicity Young's body blur into a haze of black and silver with every sway her hips gave towards the music, high upon the scarlet stage. The way her eyelids were softly closed, eyelashes beaded with sweat, somehow her heavy-black mascara holding up—traveled to me like a familiar scene from a 1920s city film. The ocean-thumps of a double bass laid out as a blanket beneath Felicity's warm melodic rays. I felt her voice make patterns across my soul. 

Nodes of musky rose, wine, and sweat billowed in the air around me as I took a deep breath. Wow, I reveled, just wow. Not only is Felicity and the band immaculate, but the collective mood of the evening was a sort of vibrancy that I couldn't quite take in the way I drew that last breath.

I looked around and saw women with burgundy slip dresses and smart blazers paired with showy-flowy blouses. Men in tuxedos and button-up shirts, laughing heartily as they take another sip of wine. Women were staring starry-eyed into their partners for a minute or two, only to look towards the ground and giggle as if there was a funny dog laying below.

In the corner of my eye, I saw Danny fluidly bobbing and shimmying like a doo-wop group member. His eyes were full of light. Instantly, I felt a weight on my chest. Like a dirty mound of guilt placed on top of me.

"Isn't this number just magnificent?" Danny grinned and continued to side-step.

In my most genuine manner, I replied "Oh, it's so captivating, I love it." 

"No, truly! I mean, it's this creative liberty that The Stellarhounds add to classics like this." He said, stopping to stare passionately in my eyes. "I know Autumn In New York is one everybody and their mom has heard before, but they've definitely never heard it like this."

"I agree." I looked back on the stage to contemplate what he just described as I fidget with my green bracelet. "Say, are you not ever tired on nights like this?" I continued, "It must be tiring, getting up there every night, even on a Sunday night where one might just want to—stay home."

"Uh—well, Es, I think that must be the case for all jobs. Getting up to head for the office at 5 am, even if you don't want to." Danny said thoughtfully. "Hey, enjoy the tunes a little more. It's really once in a lifetime, seeing a band like this."

"Yeah," I chuckled, "I'll, uh, let you get back to your groove."

He seemed to not to notice my comment or else, ignored it, but he moved a little ways away and continued to sway with the music. I wondered in that moment whether or not he enjoyed my company. Danny's different from me; he's the type of person to explore underground genres, drive up to the Museum of Rock in Ohio for spring break, and land a gig in Nashville through some connection. It's instances like these that I wonder, What am I doing here? Why am I bouncing from venue to venue, watching these perfectly moulded, too-faced, powder-patted models create music like it's asking what your favorite food is? I'm a music major and I can't even shimmy the way Danny does.

I can't bubble up a giggle and make eye-contact with someone's piercing blue eyes, and casually ask them what they're doing Friday night. I sit in my studio apartment (shoot, I have to pay rent soon) and feel my tailbone simultaneously pushing against the solid floor and the leather bottom of my couch, as I mindlessly stare at my flatscreen.

Those moments seem like the only moments where I feel safe and I feel okay and I feel like I've evaded society's sci-fi villains of educational, social, and financial expectations. "I'm finally out of the blue" I should think to say to myself. "We can set up tent here and keep watch towards the East for those damn chicken-eating robot saucers." Why would I have to avoid robots that only eat chickens? I don't even know. 

Suddenly, I'm zipped back into the fire-lit crowd at the Orbit Bar.

I stare back at Felicity's surge-and-swell waltz. She glances over at the drummer and then to the bassist with eyes the most vibrant I've ever seen in my nineteen years of being alive. All of a sudden, I make out a pale hand adorned with emerald beads, reaching forward. The stage seems to grow bigger as if I'm staring through a fish-eye lens, and all I can think about is that silver sway.

*

I'm currently still practicing writing fiction. This piece was based on the prompt: "Dancing: the vertical expression of a horizontal desire." -George Bernard Shaw. I can't say I fully represented the meaning of this quote. I did focus more on music than dance, but this is what began to flow as I typed.

Feel free to give feedback! ♡