You’ll Never Even Get To See Me Blush

In between the shimmying crowd, the dance floor glistens with glitter and sequins. Copious amounts of them are stuck to my skin but I don’t wipe them off on account of hoping that it was you that single handedly stuffed them into the glitter gun. 

There's colourful strobe lights that illuminate everything but you and I wonder if it is on purpose because you want to hide in front of such a large crowd. I understand the desire, all you need to do is just give me a sign and I’ll shield us both from the noise and blinking lights. They are jarring enough to invoke a seizure in the right person—flash of blue, flash of red, flash of pink. With each one I’m blinded, but the most recent object of my infatuation remains imprinted upon my vision each time I blink. I feel as if I am slowly being hypnotised. 

A small child sits at a very big piano, in fact it is far too large for her dainty fingers. She’s donned a pink swimsuit, waiting to go to the pool. Little fairies circle her head, flicking up strands of bleach—or bottle blonde as you would call it—coloured hair into orbit alongside them. They twirl and whisper sweet murmurings into her ears, each word guiding her hands. As they move, a twinkly melody floats out of the piano and straight into my heart. 

Sounds of shuffling feet surround me, and out of the blue I’m being shoved and spun by members of the crowd. I fall, stumble, hit the wall, grab people by the arms to stop myself from falling down, all the while staring up at the stage. I can’t lose sight. 

You’re flowing and gliding around with such grace, if I couldn't see you up there I would imagine that the songs are being created out of thin air and surrounding the entire venue with their essence, seeping into existence from cracks around us in the universe. The ethereal notes surely cannot come from anywhere other than the hands of god. 

And as if wielding them yourself, you play the Nord keyboard like it is a paintbrush in the hands of Da Vinci, or a chisel in the hands of Michelangelo. 

They move so fast that the notes are practically careening at me like a large truck, even if I wanted to escape them and the emotions they bring, I couldn’t. I don’t care about where I am anymore, all I can think is where the music is taking me, what it feels like—soft nimble hands caressing my body, moving from my hips, tugging at the belt loops of my jeans to pull me closer, grabbing the back of my waist and neck—ugh, snap out of it! 

I can’t. My eyes, and now my soul are glued to the single brightening spotlight. I guess you aren’t afraid anymore. No, the fairies have guided you here to bless us, to bless me. You move with such speed and precision that the friction sparks and bounces around you—those keys are hot—HOT! I await an explosion but the flying sparks only illuminate your beauty in a new way. 

After the closing of the curtains, the front doors close with a bang that makes me cover my ears out of pain. My head gets the message, my heart doesn’t. Maybe it’s not even my heart, but something more secret, something primal and uncontrollable. I want to forget, and as I walk away and imagine your name illuminated on bright, flashing billboards across the country that I spot at every turn, I think about how you’ll never get to see the ruby red blush that blooms on my cheeks each time I do. 

by Alicja Krotofil