• Dzama

I’m Out

All I do is dance. Which is probably why we have nothing in here but a bunch of nylon leotards that stink of the worst sweat. I’ll just go down to the corner store in this sheet.

An hour later you could find me sitting on the stoop, wrapped in my favorite lavender bed sheet, eating marshmallows out of the bag because I had a craving. Little girl from next door: “Can I have one?”

“They’re bad for you sweetie. It’s really just chemicals. They taste like glue.”

“I know. Can I have one?” I gave her one and me another one.

“What are you EATING!” It was her mother. There came a storm of Spanish invective.

I was alone again. I got up and pirouetted. Then I did an arabesque. And a chassé. I couldn’t stop there. I had to raise the sheet a little as I swept through my catalog of favorite moves. A train went by underground and that put some rhythm into my head. Then a car alarm. “It’s rhythm, man! Don’t let it kill your BUZZ, MOTHERFUCKER!!”

There were some claps from across the street. A whistle. I curtseyed and went back up, eating one marshmallow per step. If I keep going like this I won’t even fit in this sheet.

I’d forgotten my key so I sat down and leaned my back against the door, polishing off the marshmallows and flicking the empty plastic bag down the stairs. MAX!! MAAAX!! WHEN ARE YOU GONNA GET HOME MAX??!!

Falling asleep on my own doorstep but how convenient- I already have my sheet! ZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!

But there’s roaches in the hall. That’s not nice. So I’m down again on the stoop, singing quietly and watching the taxis go by as a light rain makes my blue night misty.

People shouting. And HONK HONK BEEEP!! My fingers do the dancing on the step beside me: miniature pirouettes and pliés. Then my eyelids are pulled down by the sleep magnet. That same magnet drags me down to a bad slump. And I’m out.


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