Dancing Shoes

I’ve always been familiar with Death but he’s never asked me to dance.

We’ve had drinks together in a room ambered with smoke. There might have been some flirting going on.

Sometimes his smile glimmers like Newman’s Cool Hand Luke, like Redford’s shining Sundance. Sometimes, his teeth gleam like cemetery stones.

I don’t intend to go out waltzing.

I listen for the strings of a tango. I brush a perfume that smells of oranges along my collar bones, between my breasts. I’m adjusting the bright straps of my heels.

I’m putting my hand out, pushing a little against his shoulder. He smells of limestone and ash. He leans into my neck and murmurs,

“Care to dance?”

Not yet. Not yet.

 

Ashland, VA

Mary Jo is always on the lookout for the spice and gumbo of everyone’s stories. Best meal ever.

Some of her thoughts can be found at flyingjewels.wordpress.com