[Memory] What: Memory Will characters be viewing the memory or experiencing it?: Experiencing Warning, this memory contains: Sexy dancing
What am I doing? That's the question that's running on frantic feet through your otherwise still mind. What are you doing? Outwardly, you look completely cool. You've done this a thousand times +1, and it's nothing memorable. The red lights that line the avenue of open windows is just neon, and neon toxicity is barely a thing. But you haven't done this a thousand times +1. You haven't even done it 100 times -1. This is a new thrill you're chasing in your new knee-high boots, and you summon all the courage that's threatening to abandon you.
The music is something techno, and you think Amsterdam has come to town, and you want to go to Amsterdam, which is a rambling mind's ramble. Your skin feels like someone's touching it with fireworks sparklers purchased early from a roadside stand, and you giggle for no good reason. The girl that's showing you the ropes, she doesn't have ropes at all, and she thinks you're nuts. You are nuts. Maybe you are nuts, but you need to do something to excavate the ever deepening hole where your gut once was. It's getting so deep that nothing can climb out now, and your happy thoughts have zilch chance of ever surfacing again. You can't live that way, so you're claiming this shit for yourself and on your own, and anyone who doesn't like it can bite you. You're not really sure why they would want to bite you, but they can.
You're wearing a corset in a soft pink, which a girl in a room full of girls thought would work for you. You can't tell, because you just look like yourself in a pink corset. All your parts are exactly where they were before, and that was never a very good collage of human beauty, but the girls think it's perfect. Your eyes are so thickly lined with kohl that you think they're going to stick closed. That might be the mascara, which is layered on like lacquer over wood that's going to face a lot of watery days. You feel the blush on your cheeks like cherry weight and heat.
Once they leave you alone, you think you might just sit down. The little room, which is more of a closet, really, is small, and it has a little chair, a little table, a tiny cot piled so high with pillows that it's impractical, and a big, big glass window. Your skin looks magenta, and you run your hands over pinkened arms in wonderment, and when you look up there's a boy there, outside the glass.
He's a boy. He's not a man. You aren't sure if that's better or worse, but he looks nervous with his hands in his pockets, and that makes you feel better. Your lower lip trembles when you smile at him, and you walk up to thew window frame in a parody of a sashay that you saw on that movie that one time. You place the tips of your heavily heeled boots wide on the bottom edge of the frame, along the floor, and you lift your arms and rest your palms against the sides of the window. Your corset rides over belly scratchily, and the small panties you wear defiantly cling to your narrow hips.
You sway. He's watching, and some little spark climbs up from belly to throat, a little flame licking in shades of orange and pink hope. He isn't looking away, and he hasn't pulled his hands from his pockets and moved on.
You sway, and this time you close your eyes for a little bit, and the music feels like more than numbers. You even give up the security of your feet on the edge of the sill. You turn once, and you look over your shoulder to see if he's still there. He is, though you can't see him very well over how much the girls puffed your hair up with products coated over in false-floral to cover chemicals.
You sway, and he's got company now. An older man with a beard, and a friend who nudges him on the shoulder. You laugh, and this time it isn't a giggle. It's a laugh, and the boy smiles at you through the barrier of glass. The rot in your belly doesn't hurt as badly for just a second, and you think it would be okay if you could bottle this feeling and carry it in your pocket. You're stubborn, and you're determined, and you decide to try.
You sway, and you place your palms flat upon the glass, leaving something of yourself behind in epidermis ridges on smoothness. He raises his hands on the other side, and you have the illogical thought that you can feel him.