A Short Story - The Dancer

I saw her dancing, a ceremonial dance of her ancestral African culture. Her costume, bright, and revealing as she dances barefoot. A colourful bead necklace sits firm around her neck, large coloured plumes fastened around her wrists and ankles.

Fixated by her thighs and legs, she lifts them effortlessly in beat with the drums. I'm mesmerised by her flat stomach, her forever lasting grin. She's like an angel sent from heaven.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat as we watch the show, my friends and I. Some clap to the rhythm of the goat skin drums, others tap their feet, me, I'm aghast. I'm in shock, I'm in love.

Nervously, I return the smile of the friends who catch my eye. I try not to look at the dancing girl as my cheeks burn red. I avoid her gaze as she grins into the small crowd gathered to watch her.

I shift in my seat, and pull my skirt down my thighs. I cross my legs, forcing them together to stop the fire from burning, soaking my knickers. Grabbing my gin and tonic, I gulp at it, hoping to cool down.

I look back at her, passionately dancing, glimpsing her black panties. Her brown skin shimmers and shines under the bright club lights. Her nails are long and dark red, her hands grab toward us and fling back to her sides. She looks right at me, her eyes wide and fixed, her smile broadens.

Imagining myself with her. I wonder what it'd be like being held by her, her stroking my hair, and kissing me. I imagine us together, in bed, my head on her chest. My fingers sliding up the smooth skin of her thighs, pressing at her firm stomach. Our kisses they'd be quick but meaningful, growing into more emotional signals of lust.

Her grip on me tightens, her fingers clamp into my flesh as I climb atop of her and kiss her neck.

My imagination runs amok, and I eventuality come too by the sounds of applause and I slowly join in as my friends and I commend the dance and the dancer.

The night draws on and I help a drunken friend to her Uber.

"Text me when you get home."

I open the car door and help her in.

"I love you, so much. You're my forever friend."

"Yeah, yeah you piss head. Get home to sleep." I wait for her to lift her leg in, close the door and see her off.

I turn to go back to the bar, and I see her, the dancer. She's in jeans and tight vest top, looking taller in her high heeled boots. Her hair is up and tied back, She looks gorgeous.

She's on her phone and I can't make out what she's saying. She turns and looks at me, before hanging up.

"Hi."

"Hello."

Her face round, her lips full. I think about walking on.

"Was that African, you were speaking?"

She laughs. "What's African?"

"I'm sorry, I thought you were African, or speaking African?"

Giggling she shakes her head. "I'm from Croydon, love."

"Oh!"

"African!" She shakes her head.

"What were you talking, I didn't recognise it."

"Swahili, I was talking Swahili. Do you know where that's from?"

I shrug, "South Africa?"

She laughs. "My grandparents were Masai. My parents moved to London in the eighties. I was born in Croydon."

"You think I'm racist?"

"Are you?"

"No, at least not deliberately."

"Right!" She puts her phone in her pocket and heads to the door.

"I saw you, smiling at me."

"Oh, smiling at you, when?" confusion spreads across her face.

"When you were dancing, you smiled at me."

"I couldn't see, the lights were too bright. I'm sorry." She takes a couple more steps to the door.

"Are you staying for long, can I buy you a drink?"

She pulls on the door and smiles. "A drink with a racist?"

My stomach flutters, somersaults, and my heart stops.

"I'm joking, I'd like that."

Elation flows through me as I follow her to the bar and order our drinks. We sit on stools at the bar talking. She's amazing.

Her dark eyes twinkle in the light, her lips look soft and so kissable. I hang on her every word.

"I've not been with a girl before, definitely not a person like you."

"Like, you?" She shrugs. "What, black?"

I laugh. "So beautiful, so intelligent."

She smiles as she takes my hand, and leans in.