IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!
Now that THAT’s out of the way…
It’s my birthday month, and as a gift to myself, I asked my dear friend Marian to kick off The Story Circle. Marian tapped Lance of My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog to continue the tale. Lance writes from the gut, whether it’s about a punk rock princess or a grieving widower. He’s passionate about his beautiful wife and family, about music, about the things he believes in. He’s also a fantastic friend, which having him here all the more special.
Without further ado, Dance With the Devil, Part Two:
Her legs were long and athletic, like the kind he’d stare at when he watched the Olympics on television. The way she moved on the dance floor looked like horses running a steeplechase. Her body was precise, wheels in perfect motion, and he’d stand against the mirrored practice floor admiring her bends and dips.
“You’re the only man who looks at me likes he cares for my dancing as well as what I might be like in bed.”
That was the first damn thing Myra Valentine, the dancing pride of Cherry Creek, Colorado, ever said to him. Three hours of practice, with sweat coming out of every pore of their overworked bodies, and she just threw it out. He was disarmed, turned on, and challenged.
They both came from nowhere and it was bound to throw them together. Practice, competition, eating dinner out of a box in a car three hours later than everybody else then they’d end up in each other’s bed.
Most mornings after their nights together in some cheap motel, Myra would get up as the sun yellowed over their room and stretch, stark naked, working out the muscles in her thighs, calves, and butt. He’d turn on whatever clock radio or music playing device they’d have in the room and they’d warm up together. Her eyes were blueish green, like Florida sea water, and she’d guide their dance movements by rolling them from left to right and back again. Myra Valentine was about dancing and sex and he agreed with every bit of it. Then one morning, dancing naked and the vodka from the night before still tapping her brain, she asked the question that changed everything.
“You ever think about a real life, you know, teaching or running a studio, having kids, and being normal. Whatever the fuck that is?”
His reaction was pathetic, like he should have just left the room and never looked back, but he was just as drunk, and twice as dysfunctional.
“This is the life. We’re out of cigarettes. You want anything.”
The wail of the train brakes and the upward motion of his body thrown into the seat in front of him pissed him off. Trains made him pissed off all the time, real dance champions flew in planes, he selfishly thought.
Looking down at the naugahyde binder, he turned back to page fourteen and saw Myra Valentine’s legs, still long, still athletic, and he wanted to see them naked in a motel room. Wichita might be better than he’d first thought, so he stood up and got the hell off the train.