The mahogany double doors open
and the woman submerges into a cloud of smoke.
The fog machine ushers her into the room
and into a crowd of cheering people.
A large woman, dressed in purple sequence,
clad in fish net tights and eyeshadow
sprawling from ridge to lid, descends the stairs.
The woman at the door ignores the parade.
High on tip-toes, brown sandals pushing up,
she scans the bar, examines the booths, and
searches the crowd for the face she seeks.
With a disgruntled breath, into the crowd
she plunges, deeper and deeper through the
veins of bodies standing shoulder to shoulder.
Screams of laughter erupt and the dancer
mimes the words of “Like a Virgin.”
But the woman in jeans and the yellow blouse
pays no mind and hinders no search.
She escapes the sweating merriment
and to her relief, a familiar face sits.
At the bar, eyes glued to the performer
as she parades around the bar
and serenades her loyal onlookers
sits a man, beer in hand.
The woman steps toward him,
placing her arm on his shoulder.
He looks up at her and she smiles.
“Funny bumping into you.”
He pulls out a seat for her.
“You’re late.” His arms rests on her knee.
“Looks to me like the show just began.”
“So it has.”
Kariana Writing 