A Private Dance My skin glistens under the stage lights; glitter and desperate sweat. A martini glass in my hand, I take my time walking across the floor towards the waiting eyes. He is sprawled in an arm chair, a smirk plastered across his face and a hand outstretched. I place a hand on his shoulder as I make my way to the back of the chair and bend forward, easing the stem of the glass between his expectant fingers. My hand works its way down the front of his shirt, caressing the buttons, before sliding back up to run through his hair. Both hands on his shoulders, I lower myself slowly to the floor. And up. As I dance he sips with greedy eyes. I walk around to face him and drop to the ground, restoring balance. My hands stroke his thighs as I straighten my legs, my head rising no higher than eye level. And repeat. Settling into sticky pvc he begins his speech, punctuated with languid swallows. ‘Babe, I am sorry you know’. ‘But, come on, you must have known this couldn’t last.’ ‘I mean, just look at you. You’re not exactly marriage material are you?’ ‘Of course, she’ll never be as hot as you. But she’s … you know.’ He closes his teeth around the cocktail stick, sliding the olive onto his tongue. With a consolatory smile, he places the empty glass back into my hand. ‘No hard feelings though, Darlin’. I’ll be back next week.’ Blocking his body from view with my own, I continue to dance. As he chokes. I gyrate. He splutters. I shimmy. He gags. I spiral high. Higher. Highest. Rising up to my full height, I walk back across the floor.