Stay Still

LUCY SORENSEN

I don’t want to dance.

Knowing his eyes will meet my own feasting on me with such an insatiable hunger. How does he know that my body will fill his pit?

Next will come the soft patter of his sneakers, conveniently stopping next to mine. Followed by his arms, snaking around to fumble against my shoulders, hair, waist, thighs.

Our lips will touch gently at first. His hand will softly brush against my cheek. Slowly, softly, gently, mild. Grazing, down,

down,

down.

I hate when he touches me. When he asks if he can take off my top, my bra, my pants… Is this okay? He asks as if I could say no.

Instead I stay still, because I don’t really feel like dancing.