Church of the Dance Floor…and disco ball devotion

Butterflies spark the second my foot hits the sidewalk. I step out of the Lyft, still warmed by a sweet conversation with the driver, almost always an immigrant, almost always kind. I’m ready for the night to swallow me whole. I turn down an unassuming street in Bushwick, past the gyro spot and the coffee shop. Later, that coffee shop will flick on its lights as we spill out of the alley, blinking into sharp daylight, laughing too loud, smoke from hand-rolled cigarettes with Turkish tobacco clouding the air as we make our way to the next party.

I walk past the line, meeting the doorman’s eyes, my friend now, after meeting at hundreds of other doors. His smile is warm as he pulls out red drink tickets and hands them to me. I shimmy past the bodies pressed together in impatience, and I clock my friends scattered around the room like constellations I can return to later. Right now, I’m not here for conversation.

I follow the bass, letting the vibration lead the way, taking a deep breath and a tiny pause before I enter my safe place: the dance floor.

It’s dark like velvet, dark like a cave, dark like a confession. The beat lands, and my body answers in instinct and relief as my nervous system exhales.

The music is melodic and juicy, loosening the knots I’ve been carrying, taking me out of my head, out of my day, away from responsibility and breaking the spell of who I’m supposed to be. I become a tiny particle drifting through sound, finally free of the New York City frenzy that soaks into your pores, equally addicting and exhausting while endlessly craving more.

My hips catch the rhythm with eyes closed as my arms rise, waving above my head in a spell that gets me noticed while pretending to be invisible. It’s like foreplay on the dance floor, with myself: to be seen but not touched. To feel wildly free, but safe.

I say hello to my friend, the disco ball. Her electric colors shimmering off the shards of light thrown across the room and I watch the colors dance in awe, like they’re sharing a poem, just for me.

Here, delight is not soft, and my bones move easily under my flesh, letting the freedom of movement and expression take over.

Written for the Prompt “Write about a delight—describe it with your senses and paint a picture”