a short tango with pity

A METAPHOR ABOUT SELF-PITY


OR: A SHORT (THOUGH NOT NECESSARILY UN-ROMANTIC) SPANISH TANGO WITH PITY

featuring Me, dressed in red, and The Rest of You, in complementary and just-as-flattering: black.

(Of course.)

First, the lights. This is a production, you know. 


And then, the music. More like, a Tribute to the Shape of Your Shoulders courtesy of two violins, plus one guitar. 


You lead.


I bet we've practiced this, haven't we, Pity?


"Yes, we've practiced this." This, from you. You clean up nice.


A spin. A throaty dip.


"Tasteful." This, from the gracious panel of judges.


We know the choreography well, I see. We've done this before, haven't we, Pity? Lights, music, what am I leaving out?


Sweat. That's one thing. Skin. That's another.


This is either a stage or a zoo, and we can't tell which, but the audience doesn't care because swivel and snap and you remember the steps and bright lights and hips and spin and skin. Switch.


And the timing must be perfect: the finale and one last dip to the floor, so low we almost go through it, so low we feel the itch of hellfire on our necks---and hold there; one, two, three, four---so low that the audience holds its breath: one, two, three, four, and up. A snap of stiletto on hardwood floor. 


Take a bow.


Applause. And another.


I've never danced before and I just made up a tango. Eyes to the crowd; you fake it well, you fake it well.


"You fake it well." This, from you. And a wink.


"You fake it well." This, from me. And I'm in red and you're in black and they're standing in their seats singing, "More, more, more".


We give them what they want.

This has been The Devastation Diaries.