White Wall

This semester I am taking ENGL 212, a.k.a. the intro to writing fiction. My prof is big on us writing really short stories, and suggested that we think about a song as a good example. So i listened to a song called "White Wall" by Lights of Eurphoria and came up with this. It turns out that it takes as long to listen to the song as it does to read this bad boy fairly carefully.

Enjoy!

The night was cool, but the club was hot. The guest DJ from Germany never let up, the crowd continuously pulsing and in motion like blood cells in the veins of a predator. They had come to witness his spinning, hear his magic of weaving new music from old. She and he were no exception.
She made it to the bar first, because women always make it to the bar first. She ordered their waters. They were both good and buzzed, sweating from exertion much like anyone in the club. The time for shots and beers had past; hydration was her goal and she didn’t want him getting tired or sick. He roared like a lion when he vomited.
There would be none of that tonight. This night, tonight, was the night.
Weeks before, she saw him opening up the record store on her way to work. She had made passes, looked in, but never entered before she saw him open up the store. After work, she bought a CD and he rang her up. It was his favorite DJ. Hers, too!
The got coffee. They had dinners. They had drinks. They watched movies, and swapped books and music, and they shared their first kiss, and kissed more. They had gone out, and they had stayed in. Once, she cried, and as he held her she smiled through her tears.
The DJ was coming to town, and he knew the club owner. They were going.
He had never danced, not really, until he danced with her. Responding to her body awoke in him a new rhythm, a strong coordination to her eyes, hips, hands and feet. He felt like hers, and he wasn’t frightened.
Finishing their second waters, they heard the odd staccato guitar, and before the bass thump began, she grabbed his hand, eyes wide with joyful recognition. They screamed “White Wall!” in unison. The CD she bought that first day, their day, in his store.
Rushing to the middle of the floor, with every body jumping, gyrating, jostling, around them, they found their way below three mirrored globes; this was the center.
Knowing intimately every beat to the song, they moved as if a perfect string tied every joint, every ounce of blood pumped by their hearts (beating in simpatico), every gaze, together. They moved closer and closer, the strings shortening, becoming nonessential when they finally touched. The bass stopped, and lush, synthesized strings float up, and they are so close that she knows the tremble of the muscles under his skin under her hands and he can smell nothing but her sweat and shampoo and that she blushes wherever he touches.
When the bass returns and drives the dancers into a fresh frenzy, they stand and sway, holding each other. She hears of the dark room, and the white wall, and she feels the helping hands on her hips as she starts to fall.


-Zeepdoggie