Remember when that was a thing we used to do? I’ll do that thing with the eye makeup that I hardly ever do now, but that I kind of love in a crack-beautiful way. You’ll do that thing with your hair where it’s all nuts and wild and I don’t think it will last. I’ll wear my good dancing bra (hmm… this is age. I am an old person now) and my good dancing shoes. Things will feel right. Your shoulders will connect with your elbows and then your hands will shake in the strange, crazed lights in the club. The tune playing when we come in is exactly the one we wanted to hear. I’ll clear a dance space. I won’t hold back. If we like, we can rush up to the bar, sweaty and puffed and we can order shitty, pink-coloured drinks, with heaps of sugar and vodka, like we did when we were teenagers. Let’s make eyes at the odd-spattering of men, shaking themselves the way that only men can. Let’s circle the slippery floor, its growing moist debris of dropped napkins and straws sticking to our feet. Let’s get really fucking trashed and then, when it’s time to go home, let’s step out into a night so cold our breath is visible and so is my streaming, streaking black eyeliner and your flat, greasy hair. Everything is crumpled, we are crumpled and limp, the night is glacial and the streets are black vinyl and we’ll still be hearing loud techno-trash-pop-disco-beats echoing in our heads and, yeah baby, let’s go disco dancing.
Like when we were in love.
eleanor j jackson 