I was dancing in a ritual for freedom. Even if I had read the email sent out two days ago, would my clothes have been any more appropriate than the navy blue t-shirt, gray shorts, and purple bandanna I am wearing tonight? Everyone was bathed in neon. I had two rings of highlighter-yellow and orange on my bandanna; you might as well have called me a “go-go demon.” My pearls, the center-piece of my careless outfit, were three fluorescent rings on my neck which lit up my smile and excitement.
Dancing and sweating were an incomplete mixture. I was still missing the key ingredient: you. Five hours beforehand, I had stood up. You didn’t. You weren’t alone. I did not take a prideful stance to solidify my possible attraction to you. When I sat down, our eyes weren’t attacking me. Then again, I tried hard to not stare at you.
You’re wearing a white tank-top. You obviously read the email: “[Wear] apparel for the neon-themed Galaxy Bash dance!” You saw me and stared at me. I guess my dancing was worth either a laugh or an invitation to “America’s Got Talent” because your face was as vibrant as mine. I had five seconds to ask you to dance with me. I’d like to think that you were thirsty for the question too. Would I finally dance with a guy for the first time, tonight? This ritual for freedom had begun five hours ago when I stood up to accept my preferences. When you danced away with with a pack of girls instead of with me, the ritual had failed. Those five seconds that your smile was an invitation to my liberation, I was afraid. As you dance the night away, I would give anything to turn back the clock five seconds.