Kvällslektyr

istället för att sova eller åtminstone göra något konstruktivt, som att recensera Fables knäckte jag en alkoholfri öl och skrev en liten berättelse. Jo, den är lite konstig och full av stavfel, men jag gillar stämningen.
So...without further ado I give you;

Reflections on Salomé as she dances in the moonlight. 

She dances in the moonlight, narrow hips swaying to the music only she can hear. She never dances like this when we are out. In public it's all about sex, about grinding hips and heaving chests. Desperate gestures that screams; take me home, use me, abuse me. She likes the attention and more than once, I've been forced to drag her to the nearest bathroom to show her who she belongs to. I don't min her dancing, just as long as her adoring public sees the bruises on her hips, signaling that while they can dream, it's in my bed she will rest her tired feet.

No matter the music, her steps on a dancefloor are never like they are now, slow and sensual, not obscured by some voice in her head reminding her to show of her most provcative stance. Her red hair contrasts beautifully with the white dress I brought for her in Italy. It's almost seethrough, a misstake I did not discover until the first time she wore it in public. Feeling ashamed and protective, I tried to shield her from peoples glances with my body and with my coat. But my beautiful dancer just laughed at my attempts. Hugging me close and with lips slick with red wine she told me to let them be, let them look, let thier hungry eyes roam and their mouths salvate. She did not care for them, for I had captured her heart and soul before we even met. The food on our plates had gone cold, she looked at me with a teasing smile on her lips. In my mind, our table had been incased in a bell jar. No sound making it's way out, no sound making it's way in. Ecxept for the rain smattering on the tinroof. Stilness nver looked so good as it did reflected in her lying blue eyes. She was a skilled liar so skilled that she beileived her own lies but for me it was crystal clear. The bruises around her vrists lasted for weeks. A braclet she could never take off. 

The wineglass in my hand feels heavy, the deep red liquid splashing on my hand as I move closer. Longing to be a part of the world she escapes to when she closes her eyes. My feet wants to trace her steps, my arms wants to hold her close but my mind says no. Even if I dance next to her, even if I hold her in my arms, I will never hear the music in her heart.