dancing with a stranger

She was beautiful immediately.

I never saw her face. We met each other at obscure angles only. Our eyes grazed when she turned to look to her left. I yearned to meet the gaze full on, but I enjoyed the safety of the corner and the eroticism of the missed connection.

Aviva, Aviva, come on let’s have a threesome

There weren’t many dancing in the crowd. We both lost ourselves in the rhythm though, disturbing some around us with our motion. Michelle Gurevich makes such fucking hot music. It’s self-aware maudlin aural sex, Russian yearning with a Jewish beat. Our unselfconscious expression of the erotic drew us together. I didn’t care what anyone thought but her.

Her hair was long, dark, and curled, tied up in a messy bunch, revealing her neck. Her glasses hovered in front of her face, smart and contained, like her black button down shirt and kempt, tight trousers.

I never saw her face.

She was beautiful immediately.

As we danced, we moved closer. Everyone standing but us, our animation creating a false gravity into which we both slipped. Our arms touched, maybe hands, glancing cloth. Not more than once per song at first. Barely perceptible as intimacy, the intensity of the punctuating touch amplified though by the gaps between. Then other body parts entered the fray, as the night passed, the music grew louder, and we became more estranged from, and desirable to, each other. We brushed. Softly — but with purpose. Intent and desire strained, restrained, in the proximity of our distance.

Aviva, Aviva, It’s how our love must end

The previously stationary couple in front of us shifted their position, now holding each other close. She was separated from me. I was separated from her. A separation occured; the distance now too great for our bodies to speak. There was no crescendo, just the broken ecstasy of the interruption and the severance.

I never saw her face.