Tango. 11:30pm.
Shoes. All you see are her shoes.
Open toes. A small patch of orange leather, boomerang shape, over her feet. A small patch of black leather, boomerang to the other direction, around her ankles. Front and back symmetrical, clad delicately around her feet, beautiful as can be imagined. Long straight stem of a heel. Tall glass stems, supporting those legs. Those fluorescent white shapes glowing from the shadow a black dress. Morphing deities that we now all worship.
They are seeking, fishing for something. The music is loitering, hasn’t really started yet. It’s excruciating to watch. Them fishing. The tip and the heel hover over the floor, not touching. But swirl, hesitate, change course midway. Feeling a mood, not finding. Retrieving, not forgoing. Draw a half circle, another that way, and search again.
We cringe a little, all of us who just a moment ago contracted foot fetishes. None of us feels comfortable. Not inside. We know what this is: Foreplay. Two pairs of legs, liquid on dry land, feeling for an opening. Pouring over the dance floor, thick as mercury. We really shouldn’t be watching. We know. You are either one of the two, or you are intruding.
Finally the music gets to a point. A guy begins singing. The legs wake up to the song and become more decisive. We are relieved, taking a moment to look at the body above the legs. She’s an elegant woman in that indeterminable age sometimes called prime. Her face, no doubt as elegant as the way she moves, is not clear; her black dress, fitly on her body, is fused into her partner’s dark suit. Invariably we come back to her legs. Her legs and her shoes.
If all innovations in the world are a result of scarcity and competition, then all creative arts are products of eros. Ordinary people, insufferably lifeless one moment, become artists the next moment as Aphrodite graces their foreheads with her touch. Woken to life, these inspired souls spend their lives inventing new ways to captivate their desires. They would keep creating, never resting, until they consummate their love, or die from exhaustion trying.
If I didn’t have the now rare chance to feel attractive today, I wouldn’t be inspired to write this much right now.
I wouldn’t see those mesmerizing, fishing shoes of two feet, agonizing, teasing out that never-coming turn of music when they can finally, dance.
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