The Joke

The joke, ultimately, is on you.

The music pulses through my body, and I know that with every spark of the strobe light that someone sees me. I am beautiful and dangerous, a series of orange sparkles draped in red silk and black lace.

As I stride deeper into the club, I move as much in time with my sensuality as with the bass-line.

Oh, the joke's on you, alright.

I barely have time to set my purse on a table before a hand is extended in front of my face, the palm up in an offering.

I do not so much as glance at the man's face before settling my hand in his, accepting his silent proposition to dance. It does not matter whom he is.

The beat belongs to a meringue, and I quickly lose myself in the motion of hips, knees, chest, feet. In the custom of club dancers who have nothing in common beyond location and tempo, my partner and I dance neck to neck, nearly joined together at the hips, but facing opposite directions in a bid to avoid intimacy. Never mind that we move together, breathe together, blend together - the first dance is not meant for intensity.

The crowd ebbs and flows around me, tides to the moon of the music's pulse. With the intricacy of currents, people move in and out of each other, momentarily dominating through the force of flashy tricks or through sheer personality. The strobe lights provide temporary spotlights for all, showing off the skill and sass of those on the dance floor. I glory in the mass of living, in the anonymity and in the sparkling, evanescent fame.

I am dancing with a man without a name and only the shadow of a face, buoyed by the beat and by the dance, and the joke is on you.

The meringue is almost over when I catch sight of him. What alerts me to his presence is a motion, like so many others in the crowd - a simple adaptation of a salsa 360 to the meringue beat. It's strong, short, and sparkly, sending his partner whirling into earthbound flight.

What holds my attention is his attitude. Tonight, I am a bundle of orange sparkles swathed with the sensuality of red silk and the danger of black lace. Tonight, he is a solid streak of blue emanating yellow light. We are both burning hot, near to igniting.

His eyes meet mine in a pulse of strobe light. Heat flares across the floor, a promise. The next measure turns us away from each other, but I know that I am marked.

We will dance together tonight, with all the intricacy, intimacy, and intensity that this first dance is denied. We will burst into flame in an ocean of anonymous dark.

The joke is cruel, and it is on you.

I smile grimly to myself, feeling the implied points to my teeth as the song fades into another and I disengage my inconsequential partner, moving with all the sexual power of my personality across the room. I glitter darkly as this new man presses a kiss to the back of my hand.

"A pleasure," he says, pulling me into closed position so that he can pour his voice into my ear.

My face is next to his, and I do not turn away, letting eye-contact burn between us, striking sparks into the darkened club.

"Enchantée," I purr back.

After that, there was no need to say more, the crackle of flames consuming the scene.

(The joke, you see, is on you.)