The music was loud. Strobe lights writhed across walls and snaked over dancers. Everyone seemed a little nervous. The women had glassy-eyed stares and the men hung around striking listless poses like people awaiting the messengers of the new. Then the music improved. Lao and Mistletoe began to dance. They danced to cleanse the body of staleness. They danced themselves into a controlled trance, into their private myths. Mistletoe’s movements had a jagged beauty, a style all of her own, fractured geometries of Dionysus. Lao combined flamenco, salsa, and African, surrendering himself to a compendium of dances. When they had run out of their personal repertoire they began making up new dances in spontaneous invention. An electrifying energy gathered in the dancehall. Something strange was brewing. Everyone was soon carried away by the inspiration of the music and by the zeitgeist mood that descended on them. Happy thoughts in the music brightened the eyes of the dancers. They were all briefly magnetised by a new rebellion, and every part of their bodies smiled seductively.
