She dances the tarantella like she was exotic. Not something I'd know if I saw it. But I am sharp enough to recognize it as at least talent. She is a switchblade up there, held by a shaking hand, a seedy foreigner screaming for my wallet like he deserves it more than I do, because he's had a rough time of it his whole life, where for me, I don't remember my whole life and I have to assume it was better than this. The dance is going on and there is music blaring from the beery speakers, so loud there's no melody anymore. The siren's song has been retarded but still is as effective as ever. The men walk in wearing shades and raincoats they call trenchcoats, hiding from their wives, looking for a girl they hope ain't legal to stradle the hairy patch around their navel and squirm. Still she is dancing, and I am beginning to wonder what she thinks she is doing now, if she knows that none of the terrified eyes in this room give a shit how long she spent learning that European dance but are hoping nervously she'll mount that other girl. Their one security is the cover charge: they paid, they get to watch. So what the fuck does she think she is doing up there? She think this is art? Who is she working for, she acts like these men are something they're not, she forgets these men are all pretending she's somebody's little girl. Well she's my little girl you dirty motherfuckers and stop yelling at her. You keep this up, she's gonna get fired and then it'll be a cheaper club in a nastier part of town and I won't see her dance. I wont have any reasons anymore. And my reasons are the only thing protecting you.
Back.