On Writing, Tech, and Other Loquacities

The collected works of Lana Brindley: writer, speaker, blogger

This is for all the luvvers in tha house

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The thumping bass of the last song drifts away, and the sexy notes of a saxophone glissando ease across the dance floor. The deejay, bloated with his own importance, growls through the mic, “This is for all the luvvers in tha house…”. Most of the dancers, still high on the heavy drums of the previous song, sigh in disappointment and drift over to stake a place in the queues at the bar.
Out of the milling crowd, I see Cassandra drift towards me. Her legs, long and white as the spotlight passes over them, take my breath away. I meet her eyes, and she gives me a little crooked smile. She is beautiful. She is holding a short glass, filled with a lot of ice and a clear liquid – top-shelf vodka, almost certainly – but she places it gently on a table as she walks past, never breaking her stride. Her face is clear, her eyes bright, and I find myself lost in her gaze. The nigthclub surrounding me, the music, the dancers, and the crowded bar all fade into the background. Nothing matters but her, nothing ever again will matter except her. We are locked in this moment, a connection sizzling between us that is as fine as filament, but as strong as copper wire.
She drifts closer, and the spell breaks as she puts her arms around my neck, whispering in my ear words that are not in any earthly language, but are drops of love. I can feel her body pressed up against mine, and even though we are both wearing light clothes in the stifling nightclub, even the thin cotton between us is too much. I want to tell her how stunning she is, how she makes my heart feel like it will burst, how she makes my body react to hers, but before I can find the words the music swells, and the moment to tell her these things is lost. Instead, I hold her close. As close as that is, it is not close enough. It will never be close enough. Even the act of lovemaking would not bring us as close together as I want to be right now. I want to be within her, I want to crawl into her mouth, travel through her veins, nestle inside her stomach. I want to become one with her. Instead, we dance.
I become aware that people will start yelling soon, and when the first cry goes up, I push my face deeper into Cassandra’s hair. The smell of her shampoo, and the cloying scent of the perfume on her neck, fill me with desire and I nearly forget how to make my throat make words. I swallow, and in the instant before others take up the cry and drown them out, I say the words, “I love you”. Simple words that convey only a small fraction of what I feel. All the same, I feel the muscles in the side of her face move against mine, and I know she is smiling. Her warm lips find my own ear, and I almost melt on to the floor with desire, begging her silently to nibble, bite, kiss, but instead she breathes, “I love you, too”. And the yells have started to turn into screams, panic flows over us like a wave, and I imagine I can still hear the saxophone underneath the hysteria.
The people around us start to flow into the outer corners of the night club, and I relish the empty space in the moment before the flames start sucking the oxygen away from us. I hold Cassandra close, still trying to think of the words that will tell her how I feel. She tightens her arms around me, and ducks her head slightly, so she is protected from the heat by my shoulder. I lift my chin, as though tucking her into the protective shield of my body.
The heat on my back gets warmer, until I can feel the skin searing, blisters rising almost instantly. Suddenly, my hair is alight, and I feel Cassandra judder against me as her hands, locked behind my back, start to burn. I wonder if saying “You are beautiful” is too cliched for her to be able to take seriously.
The fire has engulfed us, the hiss and pop of the flames drowning out the terrified screams of the people still in the building. We cling to each other like a life raft, still in our spot on the dance floor, still slightly swaying to the faded saxophone. And then it is over.
The thumping bass of the last song drifts away, and the sexy notes of a saxophone glissando ease across the dance floor. The deejay, bloated with his own importance, growls through the mic, “This is for all the luvvers in tha house…”.

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