Bodies press close, a cocoon of sweating, writhing skin. Pale faces are suspended in air as black lights do not capture their dark clothing. Through my heels, the floor vibrates, a cacophony of dancing boots and the off-key voices of people singing.
I am quiet and still, my face tilted toward the stage, a child looking to a savior for guidance. The lights fall fluorescent around my shoes, avoiding me because I am not a part of this energy. A haze has fallen across my sight, but my ears are clear, and a silhouette of her image is in my mind.
She is different when she sings. She is divine, she is beautiful and blind. Her eyelashes shimmer dark against her closed eyelids, and her lovely red mouth kisses the microphone in the softest way. Her femininity radiates through her voice and I do not forget how perfect she is.
When I come here, I feel out of my element, and my skirt opposes the straight-legged jeans of fraying teenagers, and I wonder what gives them the hope that drives them to thrash so joyfully as they do. But then I look up at her, and her dark eyes smile softly into mine, like we are the world and this is our universe, and I remember my own hope too.