The Dream Dance

Tap; Tap my bare foot taps on the top floor on my home in the Soho, a quick stroll of the Phoenix club. The distant sound of music soothes me. I am sitting on my bed alone, in solitude. My lacy g-string rides up my backside, stretching as I lean forward. I reach under; slip my hand into a gap between the bed mattress and the base.

Wedged inside is a small plastic bottle. I sit back up on the side of the bed. An unopened bottle of sleeping pills, I playfully twirl it through my fingers. I look to the floor. A half drunk bottle of spring water sits near the leg of the bed base.

The bad girl is so in grain in me, I wonder what colour my blood would be if I cut myself now. Would it be black or dark red like my hair? My generous heart beats against the weight of my bad girl nature and all that attaches to it.

The drunken, drug fuelled rampant moments and rages, a collection of broken hearts. I manage a smile turns in to chuckle, thinking how I could make a mural with them. It would look so artistic and textured it would hang in the Louvre'.

The responsibility of partnership, friendship and management ensure that I lean forward again. I stuff the bottle back in between the gap between the mattress and the bed base. I slip gracefully under bed spread.

I roll over onto my side. I feel my legs becoming heavy, it moves up my body. My eyes get heavy. Searching for that one final dream, a dance, dressed in a silver satin gown, pearls string around my neck. The ball suspended from the ceiling sparkles, into the eyes of the crowd around me.

My fingers and toes twitch, I am slowly and steadily drifting off to sleep. I know that at least I will be woken with a smile early in the morning. That’s the protective barrier divides my heart from the darkness. I slip off to sleep, to wake accompanied and rejuvenated to live another day.


Oz