Part 3
Two Nights Prior, When This Whole Debacle Started.
I imagine she is here to kill me. Her frame is liquid, curling and winding past me to the smokey moan of the wild and sultry Arabian guitar, arms high above her head, sliding over each other like snakes, fingers clapping the sign of the lotus between thumb and middle finger, as if she’s wearing castanets. Her eyes are gently closed in some kind of unearthly somnambulance, a divine-inspired dream.
This room is so hot and cramped that I can barely move, let alone dance freely. She moves effortlessly as water in the suffocating sea of people. I don’t know if I can get my beer bottle to my lips, let alone sway my hips, but it’s only as much effort as Moses parting the Red Sea for her, a supreme force of will, the kind that lasts through the ages.
When she went rogue, she dropped her superhero name and adopted a new costume. She’s still got the purple hair and the blue lipstick, but I haven’t seen if she’s still got blood-red eyes. I always assumed those were contacts.
Her old costume was a long white scarf that twirled about her body as she fought, relying on her luck to keep her decent. She was competing for attention on the Superhero Gang against such muscle-bound brutes that she opted for no costume at all to get any attention at all. Not once did fans and paparazzi ever catch a photo that needed to be blurred for TV. She is now wrapped in black leather from neck to toe. The costume was much more befitting a villain.
I can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve seen her. Not since I left Metro City. She’s the same, every inch. If anything, she looks better with age. I can feel her as she goes by. There’s no contact, but we might as well have mingled our auras on the hairline between reality and fantasy. My body instinctively tenses to follow, but I steel myself against the urge. The movement of my eyes is almost imperceptible, but still I take in every detail of her dance, the way her body seems to ripple with the music. Perhaps she is quiet water beneath the wind, feet shimmering back and forth with the music.
I focus on the dark Arabian as his fingers step lightly up and down the frets of his electric guitar. The red and white lamps in the corners light up his rough, stubbly features. He has an ecstatic, open-mouthed smile that glows on its own.
Her eyes snap open and fix on me as if she had been studying me beneath the blanket of her lashes. There is no shock, no surprise. She knew I would be here, she was waiting for me to arrive. I don’t have to move a molecule to lock eyes, but I can’t hold out more than a moment before I shatter under the force of her gaze. If anyone in this room saw me speak one word to Eva Lorraine, we’d both be as good as dead.
Dr. Filth T-shirt!
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