Writer's Block: Pickup Artist
There is a hole in the wall swing dance club called Memories in the next town over from where I live. I love going there because chivalry thrives within. The men approach the women, ask them to dance, and then lead them along through blissful turns and quick steps. The windows run with rain like tears of mascara down a pale woman's cheek.
It was the last dance of the evening. The enchantment was starting to dwindle, and I was ready to retire. Nothing was stopping me, except for one little man, now approaching me.
"Do you... Balboa?" He asked seductively.
"No, not really," I answered. I hate the Balboa.
"Well, tonight I'll be your memory." He took me by the hand and swung me out onto the floor.
Close steps. Quick quick quick slow, quick quick quick slow. Belly pressed up against belly. Incessantly bobbing up and down.
More than just a memory, the little man has won the honorary title: The Nightmare Pickup Artist.
It was the last dance of the evening. The enchantment was starting to dwindle, and I was ready to retire. Nothing was stopping me, except for one little man, now approaching me.
"Do you... Balboa?" He asked seductively.
"No, not really," I answered. I hate the Balboa.
"Well, tonight I'll be your memory." He took me by the hand and swung me out onto the floor.
Close steps. Quick quick quick slow, quick quick quick slow. Belly pressed up against belly. Incessantly bobbing up and down.
More than just a memory, the little man has won the honorary title: The Nightmare Pickup Artist.