Too many arms?—
useless leashes, yanking in all directions.
None of them know how to behave.
There’s no clear path to the bar.
The only way is through the mass of flesh they call a dance floor.
So I wrap myself tighter in my leather jacket and drag Celie through hell.
You can’t see the floor,
only the flash of ankles under strobe lights.
Elbows hit my sides.
A hand grazes my hip.
A shoulder brushes my chest.
And I feel them again,
eyes watching me.
The crowd keeps moving,
the stare doesn’t.
I grip Celie’s hand tighter and hold my breath, rudely barging through the middle like a bullet.
I don’t breathe again until my palm hits the bar.
It's the same feeling I used to get as a kid,
swimming the length of the pool without coming up for air.
One side to the other.
Lungs burning.
Mind counting.
Everything quiet until I re-surfaced.
Celie’s laughing,
euphoric and drunk on the music.
But the second she sees my face, hers falls.
“Alright, what’s goin’ on with you?
“You been mad weird this week. Talk to me.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s nothin’.
“I’m in a mood, alright?”
