Involuntary Theatre
“You dance. We weren’t sure if you did or not.”
He said it like he was a zoologist and she was some elusive creature. One caged by a booth and a table and a group of friends. Who sipped her alcohol slow, and laughed, and yelled, and smiled. She hadn’t known she was being watched, observed, studied, and theorized. But that’s what it was like sometimes. Being a pretty girl. She had long ago forgotten to care about boys and their hypothesis.
So she danced. Ignored their stares. She wasn’t oblivious to the spotlight, but she had never confused attention with love. It was just animal instinct, nothing more. Her stripes were aligned just right. Sometimes that did things to boys. Turned them into a rapt audience. It didn’t matter what show she was playing that night. Femme Fatale. Waif. Bitch. Tease. They only saw what they wanted to see anyway. She had long ago forgotten to wait for their applause.
So she danced. She writhed, and wringed, and swayed, and bobbed. She drank, and laughed, and smiled, and yelled. And they watched, and observed, and studied, and theorized. Then she went home. Alone.
