She wore black jeans, and heavy make-up. She moved in a sort of jigging way, back and forth, round and sideways, not getting very far. Her thumbs dug into her waist band, she smiled at me as she strutted her stuff. She and the other girls, forty of them in formation.
The one that caught my eye was Trish. Under her black cowboy hat, she had a black name tag, declaring her right to be there with the others, line dancing in front of us all. Exhibitionists, cathartically excused. Jogging back and forth in time, impressive as any coordination amongst humans always is, a throwback to ecstatic drug-induced dancing of millennia past. And Trish, flashing smile on her well-lined face, caught my eye and poked her tongue out.
Another girl I saw... or Back to HQ
© Farmer 26 March 1996