Mice of the Hunt

Valiant hearts beating like flustered rabbits surround me, but I only hear one. 

The rational part of me refuses to harken to the liquor-laced melodies dripping from her copper lips. But oh my, how enticing they are...

The smiles glistening from across the dance floor mold perfectly with the drum beat pounding the walls. It's hypnotizing, and I'm swaying. 

She wears heavy boots, so inappropriate for her swift movements. Yet she spins and swirls like water in the wind, and my mouth goes dry. 

Another swig to calm my blood. 

I'm mesmerized by that floral fringe shawl twisting around her waist as she kicks her way towards me.

A painted hand extends, and over the music I can barely make out her words.

"Care to dance, mister?" Her white teeth sparkle in the pink and red pulsing light-show.

I don't recall saying anything at all. 

She pulled me to my feet, tipping over the bar stool I was perched on. 

We were off, and I was lost.

Her embrace was comforting and warm, as was the cocktail pooling in my belly.

My eyelids were laden. Her face was blurry. 

The soulful instrumental tunes flooding the room bled together with our labored breathing. The music cloaked us; it's just her and I. 

Chestnut hair wrapped around my throat. I felt her laughter vibrate against my chest.

She threw her head back, locking her arms behind my neck while she pressed her pelvis into my own. The heat was fierce, and I didn't know what was burning hotter; my alcohol soaked mind or my groin. 

"What's your name?" I yelled, desperate and lustful, holding onto her waist like a lifeline.

She doesn't hear my call. She spins me around, around, around. 

Her gleeful chuckles sound like static as my vision turns to fog. 

The haze becomes overbearing, clouding everything.

She sounds so far away.

I close my eyes tight, seeing stars in the dark. 

When I brave to open them again, I'm where I always knew I would be.

A grey, musky one room apartment stretched out before me, lying in my dirty boxers. Half a dozen empty bottles litter the floor as I, glassy-eyed, watch a drunk couple dance to an over-played song on my television.

Just another night.