Delicate Like

My shoes filled with blood. Picture these strappy, satin dance shoes - latin, three inch heel, dyed nude. The straps, double straps actually, wrap across the top of my feet, underneath the shoe and then rise up my naked ankle to bind themselves there with a tiny square clasp covered in rhinestones. Such is ballroom life: we get into our cars at 4pm and head to Jack n' the Box, order cheeseburgers and fries and milkshakes in those satin heels and bring them back in, into the teachers room, cramming the food in with Kathy Lee Gifford singing Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes and Terrence Trent D'Arby about delicacy until we're done, pop mints, spritz Obsession in my case, Hugo Boss or Obsession for Men in his - fuel up with another black coffee in a styrofoam cup, teach three more private lessons, prep for the guest party, black cocktail dress, still latin shoes, hi, how are you? dance, dance, get called into the guest circle, dance, dance some more as this perfect illusion of people, classy people - it's all perfectly benign and how many new people can you close? but the shades are lowering over his eyes. I wonder if anything is happening to mine. I'm so aware of the impending darkness that my eyes feel hysterically open, my smile for everyone endless and wide. Then it's time to put away: chairs, tablecloths, tables, plastic champagne cups. We're the last two going into the closet to put away the last two things. The opposite of ostentatious. There's a dark corner in the back, perfect for being pushed up against. Curtains have been pulled over his eyes now. My shoes fill with blood. It follows me all the way home. Wet steps. It pools around me like a blanket I wrap myself in. I know what this blood is without knowing what this blood is.