Dance with me

If you were me this Saturday morning, you would have never guessed how strange, random things in the world are connected. All mish-mashed together, enfolding itself in front of the eye, popping up little glimpses of flirty pieces of happiness. For instance, would you have thought that the pair of little feet you can see from between the edge of the newspaper and your own somewhat cathartic knees, actually responds to music, like the tinkling of silver on fine China?
You can’t really tell much by looking from this angle. Except perhaps for the glow that emanates from nights of Vitamin E massages. The cut of the silhouette forming this V, like dipping your partner during a waltz, announcing to the world that you are but a structure, and she the picture that you flaunt.
The raw, animal passion in a Latino American dance, the heat that gradually works its way up from sharp glances, heart rates pounding together, the intermingling of sweat and breath caressing the bluish appeal of a nerve that seems to have worked particularly hard- somewhere above the ankle. Oh yes, who would have thought.
As if reading my eyes from behind unnaturally thick glasses and sheets of newspaper, one of the legs decided to emerge from hiding behind the other, only to take you on a sinusoidal pleasure trip, with fingers laced together, squeezing the non-existent gap between the inseparables, to give an inexplicably curvy effect to a cross-legged calf.
The slits on the full length skirt does justice to both the flattering mold of the legs and the predictable drop of an onlooker’s jaw line.
The whispering of a tan requires a special mention. It is of a kind that travelers to far away places flaunt, travelers who don’t forget the little bottle of Vitamin E lotion.
The chemistry of magic is so vague and uncertain; it invites more than a leer and a snicker, when you think of it. Would you have even guessed that when something living, and the inanimate get together, the result is but lethal to for an observer, like when the brown sumptuousness of dark wooden flooring has those pair of legs dancing on it in a ballroom dance and every onlooker’s mind is dancing with it.
Finally comes the grand finale, a rendition of the climax, when movement of the limbs gets more frenzied than ever, the blood thumping to cause pulsating flushes, just to stop suddenly, mid-air, and the dancing feet come to a halt. The breath is still fast, the smiles and flashes that unleash like glimpses of life outside a tram window, with the guy in front of you who sits seemingly engrossed in his newspaper. A sly smile dances on his lips, maybe at the thought of an imaginary movie his mind treats him to.