IT TAKES MY EYES A SECOND TO ADJUST TO THE LIGHTING,or lack thereof.
Like children drawn to the hypnotic melodies of ice cream trucks, we follow the path of the music to a dimly lit, smoke-filled room littered with masked individuals dancing without a care. The DJ, also masked, is on a balcony strewn with intricate asymmetrical sculptures. The faint lights change color and bounce off the sculptures, giving the room a psychedelic feel.
It isn’t a sex party. It’s a dance party.
Of course, people are chatting at the bar and on the sidelines. But most people are dancing to the DJ’s Russian roulette of songs. Currently, it’s a salsa song, but when we first entered it was bachata.
A dance party with music birthed from all over the diaspora. And privacy is maintained and freedom guaranteed due to anonymity and lack of cell phones.
This is amazing!
“Ta-da!” Anjie twirls around, her white dress blending in with the smoke.
“You knew what it was?” I ask.
Anjie replies, “No, but yes. But no.”
“Thanks for the illuminating explanation,” Sewa deadpans.
Anjie rolls her eyes. “I didn’t know explicitly, but Lionel and I sometimes dance together in salsa class. So, I guessed it’d be dance-related. The masks initially threw me off, hence why I was reluctant to share.”
“But you still trusted your gut?” I confirm, remembering how she cautioned against excessively high heels.
Anjie nods, her mouth opening to say something else when it turns into an excited shriek.
“Mi amor!” A masked man’s words stand out from the music.
Anjie and a man I’m guessing is Lionel embrace and trade cheek kisses.
“You finally came!” Lionel says.
“In the flesh.” Anjie outstretches her hands in a faux curtsey. “Here are my girls, who you’ve heard so much about.”
Anjie passes quick introductions, and Lionel gives us courteous nods. A loc’d man comes up to Lionel, the creasing in his forehead communicating what we can’t hear over the music.
Lionel apologizes for the interruption. “Love,” he says to Anjie, “here is the artist that created all these amazing pieces.” The loc’d man gives a wry smile.
“Actually, I can’t take all the credit. My friend…” He waves over a man with such an impeccable jawline, I practically do a double take. His loosely buttoned white shirt shows off his muscles.
Stop it.
Before the artist can introduce his handsome friend, the music changes and the crowd—including Anjie and Lionel—goes wild. Soon my best friend is whisked away.
I turn to Sewa to discuss Anjie’s betrayal, but a woman’s stunning nail set is trailing her collarbone. For a split second, Sewa directs her attention to me and mouths “sorry,” before focusing on the woman twirling her ginger braids in one hand, a firm grip on her waist with the other.
I don’t want to stand around, so I ask the two men before me, “Dance?”
“I’m sorry, I have to make sure all the art is still in one piece,” the loc’d artist says, excusing himself.
The handsome man says something, but his voice is drowned out by the crowd. His extended hand tells me everything I need to know.
I accept his invitation and soon we join the dancers.
On the dance floor, there’s no need for words, as our bodies move in sync to the salsa song. He moves backwards, I step forward into the space. I’m not well-versed in salsa, but his delicate yet commanding touch makes following a no-brainer. I’m surprised how fluidly we move. Mystery Man isn’t a professional, but he’s more experienced than me.
Just as I’m getting used to the fast-paced salsa, the DJ takes it to my comfort zone—kizomba.
Mystery Man looks at the other dancers, trying to decipher the footwork and tempo.
