Dancing with the devil in the disco light

It’s warmer in here than I expected. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, the crowds of capering carcasses illuminated by the burning red lights. The dance floor is a hot plate for these cockroaches. No, these moths, circling around the fire. The smell of alcohol in the air carries the stories written on the dancing faces. The drowsy, awareness lacking, inhibition losing, reasoning failing, faces. Among those faces I see him. His eyes fixated upon my face. My heart, already beating at an alarming pace, skips a beat and sends a shiver down my spine.

Our staring competition ends when my gaze is stolen by my date running onto the dance floor, gesturing me to follow. My hesitation lasts for a moment before I start walking towards her. After all, I want to be here too. She looks happy. I try to mimic that expression on my face to the best of my ability. She moves her body with the grace of a bird of paradise and I get so lost in her presence that I almost don’t notice how ridiculous I look flaying my arms around. I couldn’t believe it when she came up to me randomly and asked me to help her with her assignment. She still doesn’t know that I dropped that class and I only attend the lectures to spend time with her. I was scared when I asked her to go out tonight. I wish she had suggested something other than a dance bar.

It seems that I am not the only one who noticed her elegance. Birds of prey has already surrounded her, somehow pushing me away while I was lost in reminiscence. They’re clearly better dancers than me. And it looks like she’s having fun too. Really? Can’t you see their intentions? Aren’t these the same kind of men from the stories you told me? My heart skips another beat. I don’t understand why my hands are cold despite my heart putting in overtime. I feel his gaze on me again. My personal devil. The manifestation of my inner conflicts. Is the crowd getting bigger or the room getting smaller? I can’t breathe. My vision is blurry. My knees feel weak. I should get out of here before the tears come in.

I push through the crowd and exit the swarm of busy bees. I take a seat on a couch near the bar and drop my face into my hands. After getting my breathing under something resembling control, I look back at the crowd. I see him, the funhouse mirror of all of my insecurities. He flows effortlessly through the crowd, drawing the eyes of everyone he passes through. He is like honey to these bees. And I think I heard someone verbally calling him honey, too.

He exits the crowd and sits down next to me. He doesn’t talk. He just sits there, patiently. I make a deep exhale and I break the silence.

You don’t need to be here.

I know.

I don’t think I can do this.

You did do this. You asked her out. You were on the floor. You were dancing.

I was flaying my arms around.

That’s what dancing is.

…

Progress is good. You should listen to your therapist. You can’t expect immediate gratification. You have to give it time. It gets harder before it gets easier. You just have to keep trying. Like you did today.

If I do that, will you eventually disappear?

Your conflict doesn’t make you a bad person. Your fears come from a place of care and concern. You don’t hate the people here, you just worry for their safety. But you knew they understand the risks and still choose to be here. You know it brings them pleasure and joy. You’re conflicted because you want the same things and that’s okay. You can have those too.

I feel insecure. About my face, complexion, my body.

Then do something about it. Eat healthy. exercise. Be the best version of yourself.

Should I get a drink?

He gets up and walks towards the bar. Wait, I thought he was a metaphor, how can he order drinks? He returns with a glass of something. He stops in front of me and takes a sip.

If you need a drink to have fun, then it becomes a crutch. You will always depend on it. You can get a drink when you start having fun.

I’m scared.

Good. Use it.

I take steady breaths. I wipe my sweaty hands on my pants. I look at the crowd and I see her. Has she noticed that I disappeared? Why should she? I need to give her a reason to care about my presence and absences. A reason to dance with me over the flock that surrounds her. I bring myself to my legs. I walk back towards the crowd. To the blood red lights. A peacock doesn’t just spread its wings to mate. It’s a cry of war.