Hey you. Remember me? Remember Saturday night? There you were. There I was. There we were. Three years of muted romantic tension built to a head. I didn’t know you and my housemate were so close. Clearly not that close—he plays for the other team. But close enough to find the two of you tangled amongst the many bikes our house has amassed.
Your lips were stained burgundy with cheap wine. I wanted to taste those lips, to know the exact vineyard in Australia that had so delicately warped your judgment. You saw me, and instant connection. We talked. We laughed. We revealed secrets which we had sworn to ourselves in the seventh grade to carry to the grave. Your fingers wrapping and unwrapping around mine, like some psychedelic, peach-colored Celtic knot.
A passion arose within me. I saw it, too, in your eyes. Not mirroring my own, but a deep passion entirely your own, emanating from the core of your womanhood, flowing down and out your limbs. I saw, no, felt, this passion, and you became Aphrodite herself, the physical manifestation of beauty. Of romance. Of lust. The electricity built between us. Not the simple static of wool socks and doorknobs, no. Instead there was that great river of power that connects the earth to the sky on those warm, wet summer evenings, when we used to run naked through the tall grass.
We needed release, lest the buildup continue unabated and without climax; a runaway nuclear reaction between those two most fundamental elements: man and woman.
There existed but one outlet for us: The Dance. Through the streets we traversed, ever closer to that primitive, primal beat, that speaks uniformly to our species, unfettered by time or culture. The beat of pure physical connection, guiding us through the dance steps that first brought us into this world, and now which taught us the secret to ecstatic transcendent bliss, allowing us to share the most important, treasured secrets of our peoples, bound together in a wordless commune.
We passed the failed and forgotten along the way, those who had been measured before the dance and ultimately found wanting, now they wondered alone, dejected and exhausted. Such would not, could not, be our fate. We arrived at that Greek cathedral, made simultaneously sacred and lascivious with the flesh and fluid of our kin. You dashed for the door. I fumbled with my wallet, confused about some sort of three-dollar donation.
Wait, What? You guys are telling me you’ll give me a whole Little Caesar’s pizza if I make a three-dollar donation? F**k yeah. Babe, just let me drop this off back at the house. Yeah, fine go dance with someone else. I need to deal with this pizza.
