Mementos from Sufrida Street: Dancer’s Delight

I can see the lines of black asphalt that crisscross over the urban sprawl, forming the grid of this rat-maze of a city that I’ve come to love and hate in equal measures. A place of decadence, greed and loneliness. The black asphalt of Sufrida street is like a solid river Styx which ferries not the dead, but the damned and deranged instead in their steel coffins with wheels. To the sidelines the cracked sidewalks were pedestrian step over each other in abject apathy, trying to stumble from point A to point B in their endless monotony. They all form a chorus of moaning and screaming bastards, day in and day out, and I have heard its symphony one too many times. I know the piece by heart. I trace circles on the glass from my window, my single barrier from the rot from outside, and I gaze above at the neon visions from afar that drape the city in a hazy mist of technocracy delight. Like a glimmer of civilization, these dance bright with their light, but I know better. A vapid lie, part of the show, nothing but darkness behind the colors. Honestly, I stopped caring a long time ago, so why should I now? I simply turn away.

The 25th floor is where I live, on some unnamed tower of concrete, glass and metal. A domino piece among the others down Sufrida. Waiting for causality of Life to topple us all, I have had this dream more than once and was sad to see everything was still standing whenever I woke up. Small dwelling for a simple man as I, with walls, a roof and a ceiling, what more could I ask? Oh, yes, there is a bed, of course. A table and some chairs, the shag carpet adds some warmth to my otherwise cold interior. Maybe a reflection? No, just cheap on adorning what is now my economic tomb. I should be dead real soon, as the cancer will have its way, but fuck it, I go with things anyways. One day or two late, who cares? She’s here and for now that’s all that matters. My sweet dancer.

She sits on a corner, a vision of leather, spikes and even velvet. Her hair is a black curtain that falls to the side, the other clean shaven, as if declaring a love for asymmetry. Brown eyes so clear and enchanting she could ensnare a priest to choke the Pope with his erection. Thank God I’m not Catholic. I fish out a smoke from inside of my pockets. Red Death is my brand, a fitting name for such an occasion. I chuckle inwardly at my own cleverness, a man must have his moments, even if in the privacy of his head. On the other the zippo’s already waiting. I light the cigarette up, take a long drag and expel another part of my withered soul. Crimson smoke billows out of my mouth and nostrils, I am a dragon on its dying day.

Without asking nor telling, one of her hands slowly, almost timidly, approaches my face. Velvet touches my skin, I forget where I am, then realized she slid her fingers over to my mouth and took my cigarette away. My thieving dancer. Her lips, blueberry colored from some foreign lipstick, trace a smile that should send me on a frenzy, but I stand my ground and grin back. A mouth opens, hers, and a tongue lazily rolls out and touches the back of the cigarette ever so lightly. Tease. Finally putting it in her mouth, softly pressing her lips, she takes out a long drag of her own, then shares some of her soul on this fetid atmosphere. I am dying and I don’t care, if this is the antechamber to Hell, I’ll gladly cheer for Satan on my way there. My eyes wander across her body, tracing lines and curves. Skin-tight leather tensed over her body, spikes at random parts, implying ‘Get close at your own risk’. My risque dancer, she tempts me with her attire.

“Dance for me.”, I whisper. Famous last words. She smiles again, but this time she bares her teeth. A hunter’s smile, readying for the kill. For a moment I thank whatever fuck out there the Universe gives for me as the room is dark, save for the city’s lights coming from my window, so she doesn’t see me shudder, she won’t know that I am too weak before the end. Taking the cigarette from her mouth she flips it over, her tongue rolls out like a scooping spoon and douses the cigarette on her own saliva. If I could still get hard I’d probably be diamond core. I need her now. Standing up she starts moving slowly towards the table next to her. A small remote controller lies there, undisturbed, uninteresting, yet she presses a button on it and music fills the room. I will live and die with music in the background, that’s why it’s there. A smooth groove, something jazzy, plays around us. And she starts peeling layers of clothing, slowly, as if she were made of liquid. So graceful, so slow, yet in no time she lies naked before me. I feel weight and warmth as her body sits on top of me, bending over her lips to my ear she whispers, “Little men and their simple fantasies.”. Her hands, soft as velvet, caress my face. I am hers forever.

A stab of cold pain, my heart it explodes. I look at her face, she smiles sadly now, “It’s going to be ok, it’ll be over soon”, her words barely audible by me. Darkness slowly settles over and I know I am undone. She stabbed right and true, I see the stiletto stained with dark blood, I paid her good. She delivered the goods like any Sufrida street pro. I am free from this horrible city that killed my spirit years ago. I sail away to nothingness on my own terms. My sweet dancer, my angel of death. I’m going to Hell with no regrets. I grin one last time, and then blackness forever more.

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