The Dance Room (part I)

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She opens the door. Her apartment is pitch black. She turns the lights on. Her world is black and white. She wears black: black dress, black shoes, black scarf.

Obviously, somebody just died. Like the color in her eyes, the lines on her face. Everything’s black and white and grey. Grey as in between. Her body is the vessel in between. She wants to cross over, but she hesitate. Is life worth living?

In this current moment, no, she said to herself. Life is not worth living.

She closes and locks the door, stares at the empty room then takes off her shoes. Walks in.

No tears in her dried died eyes. No word spoken, in mouth or in mind.

She enters her room. It’s neat and clean. She left it that way on her way to the gala dinner yesterday evening. She should’ve met him last night, and they supposed to eat, drink, get home and make love as usual. But the only thing came to dinner was a phone call bringing bad news. He was on his cool blue CBR motorcyle and got hit by an underage drunk driver with a fancy car. Died instantly.

Once he told her he wanted to die on stage. If possible, with her by his side. Dancing the last passionate dance. This was never in his plan, dying on the street like a rat under the tires.

She never saw his corpse though. What for? He’s not there anymore. Whatever in that piece (or pieces) of meat is not the man she love. She just watched that meat being burried in a coffin. In a christian way that believe in the afterlife. The belief that the man she love will pass through to another world. Possibly heaven. Or not. She can’t be sure because he doesn’t really believe in God, let alone religion. He said he hate everything that forbid him to dance as he like–such as his conservative parents and the religion they believe.

She never believed in religion too. Religion made them to have to live this way: they rent the apartment but never live together there more than three days. They plan to get married abroad, probably in Singapore, next month, with no family members invited. Just some very close friend, a priest and an open minded moslem cleric who will cost a lot of money.

But she thought his funeral were better than hers in the future if she died here in this country with family members doing whatever ritual they like to her dead body. His religion does not require a soul to stay in the ground until judgement day, her religion does. During the funeral, she thought, thank God his family is not moslem. She never want to see this pieces of broken meat and bones wake up in judgment day morning as it is. It will be painful for her metrosexual lover to wake up one judgment day morning being ugly.

The thought of that brought a vague smile to her face during the funeral. Her man liked to joke around. That what made her love him so much these last 5 years. His jokes never overkilled, and he always knew the time to start or stop a joke. For example, he never joked during a fight. Only when the fight was over or paused then the jokes started kicking in to break the ice. His jokes can vaporized every fight in the right moment. They made her horny too, because he always managed to spat it out like an orgasm after a very good foreplay. Usually, every joke ended up in a great make up sex.

She takes her clothes off. Puts them in the basket. Then she takes a bath. The hot shower should’ve burn her a little, but no pain can ever beat this one: the pain of losing a loved one.

Then she remembers a scene in the rain some three years ago. They were just finished a gig in some live TV show. They walked to the bus shelter (he didn’t have his cool blue CBR motorcycle back then). Suddenly, rain poured heavily like a papparazzi blitz, without the proper “cheese” moment, without a countdown. They were soaking and he said, “Can you hear that beat? The rain have the best beat and percussion!”

Then he took her hand and they dance, with souls like little children in their first puddles, and the esthetic beauty of professional dancers: a tango in the rain. People on the bus shelter were watching them spinning, twisting and tangeling each other like watching two hurricanes colliding. They were watching a great natural phenomena without the risk of getting suck up and died in it. Their eyes and their souls were captivated by this two love hurricanes.

She cries for the first time since the call of his death. Water from the shower sweeps her tears. She stops the shower and looks at the mirror, towels her face dry and let it die again. Empty eyes of an empty soul. How wrecked am I without you, she thinks.

She gets out of the bath room and opens the closet. She puts on her underwear, t-shirts and a short. She looks at her closet again. There are his clothes beside hers. She touches them. She takes a shirt and breaths in deeply, trying to find the trace of his pheromone. Nothing.

She takes another outfit and smells it, puts it down, takes another then another then another. Until she finds the remnants of his sweat and perfume on a blue shirt, the one he used a few days ago for two hours to meet a guest in the apartment, and he took it off, put it back in the closet hanger and changed then went out with that guest. The guest was Randy, she recalls. Randy the Dandy Producer, her man used to mocked him. So dandy that he always wear colorful fancy outfit and a gold chain everywhere he goes.

So there she is. In a room full of her dead future husband’s outfits. She lays down on the bed. Closing her eyes and inhaling the blue shirt. The only shirt with color, in a black and white world.

She haven’t sleep since yesterday, and his odour sooths her. The first peaceful rest since the call on the death of her future… Husband.

To be continued here…

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