Phaidra's Blues by Roya Sorooshian Phaidra slammed the door to her room. A collage fell off the wall. She turned to her tape player, pressed play and cranked the volume to it's highest. Ani DiFranco's clashing vocals and guitar chords reverberated from the brightly colored walls and cieling. She took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching her hands, letting the music wail for her. She slid a chair in front of the door, and went to her window. She slid the glass open, and carefully popped out the screen. She grabbed her hand-crocheted bag off of her bed and slightly akwardly jumped out of the window. The shades closed behind her with the slightest of rattling.
Once outside, she relaxed. The moon was out Ice By Roya Sorooshian 1/24/01 fin. 1/31/00 It was cold. Very cold. Perle could only feel her nose if she scrunched it up. She couldn't even feel Ben's hand holding hers until he squeezed it. She swallowed. Every flower she saw was curling up into itself. She was cold enough to do that too. But Ben wouldn't let her stop. He pulled her forward, although the cold was getting to him too. Wrapping like a blanket around his heart. But he'd heart stories of what happens if you fell asleep when you're too cold. He couldn't let anything else happen to Perle. It was his fault they were here, lost in the hills instead of somewhere warm. Earlier today he’d packed his old blue Toyota (bought used before he’d even gotten his permit) with his best tape mixes, a picnic lunch and his sunglasses. He had picked Perle up and smiled when she got in the front seat. She held her arms, so white in the dark blue tank top, and looked up shyly at Ben. He turned on a tape and grinned at the whole world as he drove down the highway running next to the ocean. Perle hadn’t talked much, but she smiled at the sun in her face, and hummed a little. She even kept smiling when clouds formed and the air grew cooler. They had their slightly chilly picnic on the beach, and then Ben had turned around and seen the hills behind them. The houses were like jewels, glowing on that gray day. He had pulled Perle to her feet, and laughing, they ran to the car. Ben, drunk on Perle’s laughter hadn’t seen the black, shiny car that was headed straight for them, just as he rounded a corner. He sat, holding his head in his hands as the sound of a siren got closer and closer. His car was a wreck, he was sure, and couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes and face the destruction. Perle was silent, and only when the police had left and the tow truck was gone, could he bring himself to look at her. Her arms were bruised, and her collarbone ached. Ben sat, dazed. Staring at the hills that had just minutes before been so tantalizing and welcoming. Perle put her cold hand in his and her eyes asked questions he couldn’t answer. Now it was different. Before, Perle had been smiling. Her milky skin had pink tints instead of this blue pallor that was shining through now. His need to protect her grew. She was more precious than her namesake. He always had the urge to stand in front of her, to shield her. From treasure hunters. From the dark ocean. Or even from her own cold shell. She always seemed to be on the other side of a wall. A wall made of something shiny, and cold. Something that he could see her through, but could never quite get past. Like a wall of ice. Earlier that day was the closest to melting the barrier he had ever come. Before things had been sunny, everything he said had been greeted with a smile. Before it had been an adventure. Now it was frightening. It was almost bewitched. There was no one out. No cars driving by, no dogs barking from the other side of chain link fences, no dark eyed children running or playing. And now a cold film had fallen over both of them. Perle didn't put up this shield. This cold was something neither of them could control. Ben could feel his desperation mounting. Along with that he felt a twinge of frustration. She would never trust him now. So he pushed on, the cold making it difficult to speak. They were lower in the hills now, passing gravel lots and thrift stores, which would have looked intriguing during the day, but were now the lair of who-knows-what’s. The thought of all those discarded items that were once loved, made Perle think of dark windows and loneliness. Although Ben had her hand tight in his she felt cut off from him. She had been so happy earlier, melting in the sun. When they had crashed, she had a brief glimpse of his head hitting the steering wheel and his whole body jerking, before her head had been yanked away. She thought he was dead. And it would have been her fault. She wasn’t sure why she was here right now, like this. She wished she had worn something warmer. Ben’s back frightened her. There were things about him, things she didn’t know, about his life before she had met him. But when she was with him she forgot about that, in his presence; his heat and warmth and comfort. Like he had been down to the shores of the same black, silent ocean she lived in but had battled his way out. But there was still something about him, a look in his eyes that flickered in and out, that frightened her. The way he held his forearm and his brown eyes turned black. The way he glared – or grimaced, or winced – at things she couldn’t even see. The way he was walking now, so fast by the dark corners, nearly dragging her, running by the smashed bottles and cigarettes in the gutter. Up ahead they could see the sidewalk turn to red, and to purple, from a neon sign shining above. They could hear the sound of voices, and laughter, that buzzed in and out like the sign that read Cobra's Nest. Perle swallowed again, and in they walked. Ben winced at the strong smells that hit him in the face. This was too familiar. Too close. He glanced at Perle, wondering what she knew about him. What she was thinking of him taking her into a lair like this. Perle opened her eyes wide at the color. She felt better in here, the smoke was like a curtain and she didn't feel so naked. Or so cold. There were bodies everywhere. Some standing by the bar on the opposite wall, glowing like strange aliens under the lamps with red and green shades. There were people perched all over a few couches in one corner. Clothing seemed to be optional. For the first time in her life Perle could imagine being warm enough to shed her protective layers. In the middle of the room there were people undulating wildly to what seemed to Perle to be the sweetest music she'd ever heard. Her heart grew and swelled with each pulsing second. She let go of Ben's hand, and watched open mouthed. Her head was swirling with the throbbing colors, and she wanted nothing more than to be in the middle of that floor, dancing away her skin. She looked down at her arms. They looked weak and pale compared to everyone else. She felt small again. Alone inside of her body. She turned to Ben. He took her hand, glad to have something to anchor himself, and led her through the room where they found two stools by the bar. From there they could see a doorway with a beaded curtain. They could hear more laughter and fierce sounds, like animals with bared claws, emitting from the hidden room. Perle was afraid again. A snaky woman, a tall and sinewy woman, with gold bands around her arms slithered up beside Ben. She noticed his interest in the doorway and smiled at him, showing all of her teeth. They were sharp and pointed. Perle could almost see a forked tongue. "Come with me" she hissed, taking both of them by their arms. Perle's eyes watered as SnakeWoman's nails dug into her flesh. She led them through a doorway, the beads letting them inside with the slightest of tinkling, like ice cubes in a glass. She led them into a room with mirrors covered the walls, the ceiling and the floor. Perle felt like she had, long ago, at a County Fair's funhouse. Her pale reflection jumped out at her from everywhere. She felt like she had when she heard their car hit the black one. The sound of broken glass, the sudden silence, the numbness, and then the stinging that enveloped her entire body. Perle thought her bones were icicles and might splinter and stab her any second. She clung to Ben, but he didn't squeeze her hand reassuringly like he had before. The muscles stood out on his forearm, and his reflection was a stranger. It was the same hard look she’d surprised in his eyes when she knew he was thinking of things, dangerous things, which she would never understand. She didn’t understand how hard it was to stay warm and strong all the time. All she knew was this ice feeling. She didn’t know what it was like to be the sun, yet crave the cold moon constantly. To be fire and crave ice water, snow, powder… SnakeWoman's grip on Ben's arm was firm, and warm. The tension in the back of his neck slowly dissolved. The light from the mirrors bounced off of SnakeWoman's gold bracelets and armbands, and made him think of molten lava and fire, and warm bodies. He was tired of fighting this cold. Tired of working so hard to stay warm. Tired of the pit of ice that had formed in his stomach. He recognized this cold rock feeling. Remembered it, saw it reflected in all of the mirrors. It took him back, to before the accident, before Perle even. Suddenly he was back in that ocean, waves over his head, losing feeling from the neck down like he was frozen alive inside of a block of ice. It was the look he recognized in Perle’s eyes that had drawn him to her in the first place. But she had been born like that. She had never struggled with warring heat and cold the way he had. He was tired of it. Tired of Perle's freezing hands, and frightened eyes. Tired of her blue bruises, the way she watched him from all of these mirrors, the way she made him remember and regret and numb and sting all over again. The heat from SnakeWoman's body surrounded him and penetrated his body to the core. SnakeWoman led them over to where there were 6 or 7 people with wide, glassy eyes bent over a mirror. Ben dropped Perle's hand, and sank to his knees beside SnakeWoman. His nostrils flared as he inhaled her powdered venom. Perle swallowed a scream as he turned past her, and to the SnakeWoman. A thousand invisible threads strangled her as she turned and ran from the room. Ben, hypnotized by green and gold glinting eyes, didn't even see Perle leave. Perle ran, gasping, and didn't even realize when someone pressed a glass in her hand. Her throat still felt like she was being strangled, so she drank it, and immediately some of the invisible cords that had been holding her were severed. As she walked to the bar, the colors seemed to brighten. That music was back, instead of the screeching, whining noise that had filled her ears since SnakeWoman had appeared. She drank another and laughed as SnakeWoman chased her rattle around in circles, only to wither up and leave nothing but a skin, which also shriveled and faded away. She drank another when she thought of Ben, thought of his eyes, dead when he saw her. This was her fault too, this crash of his, and hers. She saw herself reflected in the policeman’s helmet, small. Frightened. Saw Ben’s body crumpled. Her bruises throbbed. She remembered the broken bottles in the streets, the dark windows, and the huge black clouds accumulating above the even darker ocean. She drank another when she thought of Ben, in the other room, of his fierce reflection. She drank more when she thought about his back, and more when she thought of her dropping his hand when she saw the dancers. She was courageous now, by herself. She dropped the cup and pushed her way to the dancing. She stood, swaying in the middle of the pulsating crowd. She was pushed, and pulled, one way then another. She closed her eyes when the colors were too bright, but she could still see them, as if they were painted on the inside of her eyelids. There was nothing to do but dance, and so she danced. The bruises faded, or multiplied – her whole body was throbbing so that one bruise didn’t mater. This wasn’t the body that Ben had dragged behind him, the body that had caused the accident, the body that he’d turned away from, the body that was always so cold, so frozen. Her body wasn't her own anymore, which was just the way she wanted it. She had always hated being Perle. Pearl, pale, small and cold. And so she danced. Ben woke, crying. He had dreamt of Perle, that she was a mirror, and when he reached out to touch her, she shattered, turning to white, white dust. He staggered past the still forms on the cold floor and out where the music pounded in his ears and every face leered at him. He stumbled over a discarded glass, and when he looked up again he could see her. She was spinning and spinning like a madwoman. As he watched she went faster, and faster, the music changed to something desperate. Like fear and rage. She twirled and twirled, around and around... She could see the tops of everyone's heads now. Her feet had left the ground, and still she twirled. Higher and higher. The air was turning the brightest white she had ever seen. Brighter than snow, than ice, than anything. She got cold all of a sudden, and could feel her eyelashes as they beat wildly against her cheeks. She could see a glass ceiling just above her, and at the last crystal moment, she crashed through, still spinning. She took a breath of fresh air and felt her lungs shatter like the ceiling. The sky was white but she could close her eyes now. She wasn’t going to have to watch again as Ben held war within himself, whether or not to open his eyes. She could be the one to lay her head down, be the one with her back to Ben. She could rest, if she wanted, not at the mercy of the falling night, or someone’s longer stride. She could close her eyes. And so, still spinning, she did. Ben watched as Perle spun around and around, faster and faster and faster. The crowds were pressed against him and wouldn't let him move, even as the music reached feverpitch. Faster and faster... then for one split second, time stopped. Perle's eyes opened and met his, and he felt her cool breath on his cheek like he'd felt so many times before. He felt an invisible hand squeeze his. The hand that had waken him from his stupor, which had anchored him to earth, which had been so willingly pulled, which he had uprooted. The hand that never seemed to get warm. Then time continued, louder and more glaring than the sound of two cars colliding. He watched as Perle crumpled to the floor. He watched as the screeching white ambulance took away her body. And he watched as the last few people disappeared off into the night, which was now colder than it had ever been before. october love by Roya Sorooshian I exploded when i saw him. he smiled quizzically at me and almost guiltily, i tried to collect the fragments of myself before he noticed my barriers were down. he hugged me, a hug that threatened to fracture my very being, yet seamed my scattered thoughts together. oh, he was dangerous still. i stepped back. was i all together again? yes, i was. i avoided his eyes and proceeded to laugh my way through our conversations. oh if only i wasn't still feeling broken. one look into his eyes and i was afraid i might crack.
the large bushes of lavender made the air purple. it was October, afternoon, and i was busy falling in love. some folks fall in love with summer. the bare bodies, heat, long days and bright oceans. some people fall in love during spring, new beginnings, soft colors and flowers. i fall for fall. the air is crispier than burnt toast, and smells a whole lot better than charred brad also. every breath i take penetrates my brain, the parts that get lazy during the summer. my hearing is keener, my eyesight is better. i'm lighter, the air is crystal clear and i can slide right through. i can stand in my driveway, smell lavender, taste pumpkin pie and see into the future. it doesn't scare me; i'm in love.
and all through November (the butterflies in my stomach were orange-seasonal), December (giving giving giving was better than receiving), January (forget new year, it's a new life), February (the month of love...), March, April, May (i pressed the flowers he picked for me), June (oh the ocean called...), and July.
July. where the sun beat down and baked us both. it toughened his skin, but mine peeled back, red and tender under his touch. but he didn't care. didn't care. and i rubbed on the aloe myself. i laughed in surprise at how much it stung. i had tears in my eyes. it was July. and there was no excuse for me to need warm arms around me. but those days were so long. and the nights barely exaggerated by Roya Sorooshian Outside it starts raining. and i think that there's something not right. it's august, almost september, raindrops have no business here. it's a hot night though, despite the rain. i'm staring futilely through the slits of the blinds on my window, imagining a scarred face, with sweat from this muggy night under his eyes, staring back. i turn away. a car chugs along outside. i think maybe i should close the window, maybe it's not safe. but it's so hot. i checked behind the shower curtain 53 times today. i turned off the computer, i locked the door. did i lock the car? oh shit... i won't get up. i won't look. what if someone is looking into my bedroom now? what if they know i didn't lock the car and i won't be able to drive to school tomorrow? i get up and go outside. it's much cooler. there are spider webs on my porch. no moon. it stopped raining. now my feet are wet. the car was locked. i hurry back inside, panicky until i close the door and lock it. back to my room, stop at the bathroom. 54. i lay down on my bed, with the lights still on. people outside can see in, but i can't forget tom sawyer. how a light left on saved a lady's life. i usually fall asleep with the light on. the book shelf at the end of my bed has two trophies on the top shelf. i have a sudden vision of being stabbed by the gold figure on top if we have an earthquake. i stand up on my mattress and take the trophies down. lay down again. pull up the blanket, even though it's hot, and there's no air coming through the window. i always need something covering me. i can't sleep. did i lock the car? oh, right. then what did i forget? i go to get a glass of water. 55. lay back down. the light is awfully bright. i close my eyes but my toes are twitching. my toes... i reach down and pull off my socks. no wonder. i close my eyes, and i'm asleep. love grown old by Roya Sorooshian He sat so still, with his eyes closed. His hands long and slender in his lap. I walked around him slowly. I imagined that he was a statue, that I could see moss growing on his neck, and that the little wrinkles in the corner of his eyes were hairline cracks. His skin was turning green and cold while I watched. I can't see him breathing anymore. Was it my words that turned him to stone? All I'd wanted was a little companionship, a little...love. But his heart had hardened and his eyes grown cold. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to love you if I had known this would happen. Now I'll never hear you talk to me again, never hear your voice call my name. Never hear you say, "I love you, Medusa..." closer to being by Roya Sorooshian (for cristie) i could hear her singing just like she had taken a big tube of oilpaints and squirted it on the wall. but my eyes were closed. and her throat was closed too, i think tightly, in the grips of the beating drums. but her arms were open and her fingers stretched, even her feet were open to the swaying floor, as she leaped and tiptoed from one crest to another hill. the ceiling gave way above me, as i arched my neck to the sauna of the sky. bright colors were dancing in front of me, colors turning to energy while i watched. without knowing it, my eyes were turning to light, my hands were turning to fire, and my thoughts were turning to steam. i realized right away, that the key was in losing my consciousness. and i focused on that, losing myself in the bright energy ribbon that seemed to entangle us all in it's mad pulsing. and it felt good, *good* to be one of the captured, to have no hold on time or on myself, good to be thoughtless, wordless, but full of expression. satisfying but i couldn't have given it these words then, the only energy i had was for electrifying the air, giving hues to soundwaves and meaning to answers. i watched those beams of light piercing through my eyelids, the warm sense of what they are seeping into my skin. i realized in utter wordlessness how close we really are, to color and light, to life, to sound to each other. how close we are simply to BEING. Desert Truth by Roya Sorooshian Sitting with my knees pulled up towards my chest, I watched the activities going on below the rocks I was sitting on. I was just high enough to be seperated, low enough that if I wanted to I could rejoin the rest of the world with one smile. The sun was shining blue through the 6 o'clock morning clouds. My journal was perched on my knees, my pen gripped between my fingers like it was the only thing that could save me from drowning. Drowning is an odd metaphor to use for this desert of sand and rocks and joshua trees and dry winds. But looking over the distance it really does look like a rolling ocean with life underneath the surface. Heat waves instead of water. But there are more ways than one to drown. It was either swim in that sandy sea or fly. The wind comes hard, trying to strip you down to the bone. The wind is harsh, taking sand and rubbing it against your mind, wearing down your defenses. It is hard not to be perfectly truthful in the desert. But even so, we found places to hide among the rocks and caves that were the most dependable things I'd ever known. I found faraway lookouts where no one could hear my gasping tears over the wind and scraping gravel. I found caves to curl up and hide in, so cold it made me shiver, but far away from the relentless sun. I stumbled, blind from tears and the dark as I was torn between following the rest or finding my own path down to the sand. The wind tore me away from myself, picking me up and laying me back down in an unfamiliar territory. I ran ahead so I could look back, to try and see where I came from, if I could still recognize it. I held on as tightly as I could, but as always, you picked me up before I had a chance to prove anything to myself. But now I'm back in the land of humidity and salt water. Knowing that I didn't even leave lasting footprints in the desert, but that I left an even bigger part of myself behind. I was drowning there on the sand. I was being smothered there by the wind. But in the struggle not to choke I gained control. It is harder here to dig down to that layer of truth the sand scores away to so easily. And although I go through the motions of washing away the smell of the desert when I swim in the warm water, this is only pretending. I was drowning in sand, in ink. Pinned down by the rocks, your arms, the wind. I struggled, and coughed. Weaker than I'd ever been. But I have looked back and seen the skye. I have stared at stars so hard they transferred to my eyes. The wind took away my breath and replaced it with something new. Something old. Something timeless. I was drowning, but I overcame. And in the desert, I found truth. stop struggling part one by Roya Sorooshian and here i am, fighting against this thick swamp i seem to have fallen into. fighting towards the top, i will not let myself drown, but i can't help the little voice in my head that says "once you drown you will have rest" i kick my legs as i try to stay above, my legs cramp, my shoulder pulls with that tendonitis i never got rid of. i am feeling desperate now, as the thickness covers my nose and my mouth, i don't remember to call for help. i am here in the present, only able to think about now <but it would be nice if someone would see me and swim me to shore> trying to shove down the panic that rises in my brain, trying to keep my eyes at least level, at least open. i don't remember how i got here, how i fell in, how i lost my balance. but that doesn't matter now. am i like a trapped animal in quicksand? slow my breath, quiet my heart. that is the first thing you learn; not to struggle. stop struggling, part two by Roya Sorooshian so i have stopped struggling, i am calming my pounding heart and concentrating on my destination. this is not a call for help. this is a declaration of selfishness and pride. <although i wouldn't mind help if i didn't have to ask for it> the swamp is thick and swallows me even faster when i narrow my body and my eyes, it's funny that after all my concern of how people see me, i am now in this thick brown mud and can't even see myself. i am thinking irrelevant thoughts, wondering if this is really the right life that is flashing before my eyes. will i hit the bottom soon? will any sign of my early struggle linger? will i walk on the bottom till i find the door that lets me out into a white room with disinfectant, where i can fall asleep like a newborn behind a window, not knowing that i should be self conscious? i am thinking of white clarity even while i fall through this suffocating medium. maybe i should have fought longer, harder, before it was this late. maybe i should have tried a little more, maybe i could have heaved myself out of this, maybe i would have stayed above and clean a little while longer before i misplaced a step and fell in again. that is the one thing i am sure of now. that i would have ended up in here sometime. maybe that isn't a bad thing. maybe there will be room to breathe, if i could just find a place to rest.... EveryDay by Roya Sorooshian maybe yesterday i was falling through a swamp of mud, but today i am walking (squelchsquelch) on the edge. there are trees with eyes that see too much, they try to grab at me when i walk by. 44 year old trees with moss like sideburns and roots that bulge like pot bellies. they surround me, i can't avoid them, their branches snag at my hair as my breath snags in my throat. they are trees i would never climb, old, rotten, twisted like poison. no matter where i go, how many corners i turn, i can never let my laughter invade this nightmarish swamp again. the hot, murky air that blows in no direction makes me nauseous, maybe that's what warped the trees. maybe it is my fault the branches have cracked. did i swing from them for so long they bent over with fatigue? did it wither when i carved my initials <and his> in the bark? is it my fault that these trees grow here, where the only travelers are young and confused? is that why i don't say anything, why i don't use the ax i carry? why i left teh swing that hung from their branches, to pick my way around the roots, trying so carefully to step around them? i am so afraid. what would happen if i slipped and fell? i would hit my head, lay there forever under teh shade of the tree, paling and paling till my eyes held no color. i am afraid that the tree will crack and fall, but i am more afraid of the noise if someone calls "timber!" the thought of what might happen makes my knees weak and my stomach turn. it pushes away any sunshine that might have penetrated this swamp; sunshine which would rather keep us in darkness and denial. i would rather not see, be blind to the things that lurk in the branches; be deaf to the rustling of the leaves. but i walk through this swamp of sickness and malformed trees. and i am afraid (of) EveryDay. NBTSWikiWiki | Recent Changes Edited 5 times, last edited on February 14, 2002 by 12.82.138.16. © 2000 NBTSC Webmasters |
large and yellow, casting an eery light over her. The neighborhood was dark, except for one orange streetlight glowing softly. She started walking, the hot tears on her cheeks freezing. The heated argument she'd had with her mother likewise cooled. She pushed it to the back of her mind, feeling slightly giddy as she realized her mother couldn't stop her. She walked for about 10 minutes till she reached a 7-11, dropped 35 cents into a payphone and dialed quickly, her fingers cold.
"Hey Duff? It's Phaidra. Will you pick me up? The 7-11. Yeah. See ya."
She hung up, and went inside the 7-11 to get warm. She saw Duff pull up in his small silver Rabbit, and went outside. Duff was wearing a white undershirt and tight jeans as usual. His leather jacket was slung across the passengers seat and the car was full of <B style="color:white;background-color:#880000">smoke</B>. He leaned over and pushed the car open, flashing a smile as Phaidra climbed in.
"You wanna dance?" Duff asked in his deep voice. Phaidra nodded, breathing in the comforting smell of <B style="color:white;background-color:#880000">smoke</B> and leather.
"So what happened this time, Phaid?" Duff asked after a few minutes of silence. Phaidra shrugged.
"The usual pyscho-bitch act." She said, trying to distance her voice. "This time, irony of ironies, it was about my lack of family values. I told her that I must be a failure because I had no real parental figures to look up to. Needless to say, she didn't like that." Duff barely nodded as he reached for the radio. Phaidra sighed and reached to take Duff's cigarette from his mouth. She inhaled, exhaled, and only then did Duff look over.
"That's sexy," he said.
"What?" Phaidra asked, nearly <B style="color:black;background-color:#ff66ff">choking</B>.
"The way you <B style="color:white;background-color:#880000">smoke</B>." Duff replied, his attention going back to the dark street. Phaidra blushed, and looked out the window. She always felt like such a weird combination of little girl and woman wit him. He was three years her senior, and she could remember watching him for years. She'd watched him through his Fonzie obsession, when he bought a motorcycle, and even after he'd given up the bike for practical purposes, when his love of the fifties stayed. He'd only noticed her this year. He had been leaning against his car, <B style="color:black;background-color:#A0FFFF">smoking</B>, when she walked by. WIth a jerk of his head he'd hailed her over, taken her hand and written on it 7 digits in blue ink.
"Gimme a call," he'd said, and gone back to his cig.
"Thanks," Phaidra breathed, and blushed and stumbled her way home. She'd gotten in trouble that night, her mother screaming when she saw the phone number on her hand. She had scrubbed Phaidra's hand with steel wool. Phaidra bit her lip trying not to cry. She'd already written Duff's number in her journal though, and as soon as her mother let her go, she'd called Duff. He said he'd pick her up in 10 minutes. He'd asked what happened to her hand, called her mother a fucker, and gave Phaidra a cigarette. And so their friendship grew.
He bought her things - candles, skirts, champagne. Every time her mother did something, Duff would show up at the 7-11 with a present. Phaidra could never understand why he paid her this much attention, although she was grateful.
"Dancing?" Duff asked again, and Phaidra nodded. The rabitt (dubbed "killer" in honor of Monty Python) pulled into the parking lot of a bank. Duff tossed his jacket over Phaidra's shoulders for the 3 block walk. They opened the door to a tall building and walked up a flight of dark stairs. They could hear the music building as they walked higher. The second they walked through the doors their eyes were met by swirling masses. The room was dim, with red and purple roses projected on one wall. From wall to wall there were couples charleston-ing and lindy hopping, twirling and spinning. Phaidra took a deep breath, feeling happier by the second. One of Phaidra's all consuming passions was dance. Swing dance, in particular. When she danced, she felt like a part of something important. When the music filled her from her head to her toes and inside and out, she was happy. Total. Complete. She felt whole. She remembered dancing with her dad when she was little, holding his fingers in her little fists while she stood on his feet and he danced around the room. He loved jazz music, his favorite of all time was Sarah Vaughn. He would pick her up in his arms and swing her when Sassy's Blues came on. She learned early that she could make him happy by scatting along. Those were here favorite memories. After that things changed
