She got the knife in her own room as she danced to the Rolling Stones and didn’t see it coming, ha, ha, ha! That was my start of a life of crime, and boy does it pay, more than any other girl I know: ha, ha, double ha.
Before me lay the dance floor, an ocean of sweaty skin and whispering lips; of woman with claws grasping onto men with eyes like wandering spyglasses. I dove in, hoping upon hope that one breath could get me to the other side.
If she’d seen him on the street she might not have looked at him twice, but when he danced he was the kind of beautiful that made her start thinking in verse, long strings of adjectives and hyperbole leaping out of her fingertips. After a few songs worth of violent inner turmoil, she worked up the courage to ask him to dance a rumba with her, and it was then that she realized the most perfect kind of joy could only be expressed in 4/4 time at 26 measures per minute.