#daft ball

I catch someone's eyes on mine as I do one of my twirls and I am smiling, smiling. My phone is taped to the inside of my skirt pocket, weighing down the hem of it and thunking against my thigh. My shirt is wrapped around my hand, my white knee socks and white bra glowing under the blacklights. My feet are tapping, my hips are sweeping, my hands are circling, and I am spinning, spinning. 

I dance with a darling, making dramatic, smiling faces at each other. We circle close, far, then make a mockery of ballroom dance. Our arms entwine and his pupils widen as the night drags on, on.

I dance with an acquaintance, and let my shirt-free hand reach back to tousle his hair. I catch a punch to the face as a dancer's enthusiasm takes their hand to my face height. An accident, of course. The man I dance with turns on them, and I dislike his anger. All is love in the dance hall. No room for testosterone rage. I leave him and dance with old dorm mates. Their styles vary and their limbs wave, their bodies are fluid and their energy ebbing, ebbing.