I don’t care what they think they saw. I only know what I lived.
I could feel their stares. How achingly they tried to cover their jealousy with disapproval.
All they saw was a couple making out on the dance floor—the first couple to make out on the dance floor. I suppose we can’t really blame them, much like you can’t blame someone who has never let themselves learn to love coffee. All they taste is the bitterness, and all they feel is the social pressure to drink. As a result they reject it, never letting their bodies learn to love the deep, rich flavor and the emotional and physical highs that follow. We let our bodies learn.
We drank deep of the font of love and passion, and found ourselves born anew. There on the dance floor emerged we, naked and shimmering in the dew-like sweat of our trancendance. We had no need for the dance—its purpose was met—and we took ourselves, took each other, to a higher level of experience. Our senses slowly shut out the rest of the world, and we saw only each other. Felt only each other. Tasted onlyeach other.
And as our bodies synchronized in movement and in purpose they watched. They, the old and the dying—their bodies young, but their minds made acient with forgotten taboos and warrentless stigmas—looked on as we explored the true meaning of our humanity, of our sensuality. We were in the room, but not of the room. We left them behind on this material plane, and they hated us for it.
But that hate could only resist our love so long. Like the most terrible contagion, our love spread. Through sight and smell, amplified by the hypnotic beats, our love overcame. Couple by couple, they joined us, and what could we say but:
You’re welcome.
