Dancing in the Moonlight
A small vignette that nothing has yet come of that I’ve been holding onto for a while. Unedited.
/Dancing in the Moonlight/ came on the radio, and Sugar stood up and started moving. Her face felt warm, and she put her hands above her head, slipping from Andy’s grasp gracefully, pointing her toes so she wouldn’t kick him as she rose. Without a bra, her breasts bounced without gentleness as she threw herself into the dance.
“Dancin’ in the moonlight…it’s such a fine’n’natural sight…”
She lifted her blue polka-dot dress just a little and pulled the skirt of it from side to side – like she was doing her own rockabilly cha-cha with a little bit of swing. She shuffled from side to side, sliding her flats back and forth, the heels slipping easily across the concrete floor.
Andy laughed, watching her. His eyes were trained on her hips, her long legs, the curve of her side. She knew that. She shook her backside a little.
“Aren’t you going to come over here? I love this song.”
Her question made Andy bark a laugh. He got up, hitting the small crate that had served as dining and coffee table that night with the toes of his brown boots. “It’s by King Harvest, I think. Seventy-three or four.”
“It’s too short,” Sugar said. The song ended just as Andy reached her, hands outstretched to take hers and dance. Sugar began humming softly, half-whispering and half-singing the lyrics. “‘s Super-na-tu-ral de-light…dancin’ in the moonlight…”
“I don’t bark and I don’t bite,” said Andy, shimmying up close to Sugar, spinning her in a circle. He was graceless, but willing to play, and that made the difference. They sung the lyrics to each other, half-wrong and out of order, and they danced. A few times, Sugar took the lead and changed their direction so that they wouldn’t run into the furniture. Andy barely noticed. His focus was on Sugar’s lips and Sugar’s hips.
When they stopped, Sugar went over to the large industrial-framed window with its many panes of glass and swung it open. “It’s a warm night – all that dancing.”
Andy opened the top two buttons of his short-sleeve dress shirt. “Yeah. How about a beer?”
“Sure – I’ll get ’em. Where are they?” Sugar headed towards Andy’s kitchen, her behind swinging gently from side to side to the rhythm of /Dancing in the Moonlight/.
“I got a mini-fridge on the balcony just outside,” called out Andy. “Can’t miss it. Thanks, Sugar.”
Sugar opened the bottles in the kitchen using the bottle-opener that was screwed directly to Andy’s fridge. She took a swig of hers and headed back to the next room where Andy was still sitting on the orange and brown Chesterfield. The disc jockey on the radio was chattering about some upcoming nostalgia concerts. Andy lifted his eyes from the hem of her dress to her face, smiling as she handed him the beer. “Thanks.”
/Like a Rolling Stone/ came on, and Sugar smiled. “It’s one hit after another! You like Dylan?”
“Sure,” said Andy. “Except that ratty mustache of his.”
“It’s not his looks that concern me,” said Sugar, shrugging. She took a sip of beer.
“Okay,” said Sugar, walking over to the window. “Come over here, would ya?”
Andy walked unsteadily over and stood beside Sugar. “Funny – feel half-drunk a’ready.”
Sugar nodded, massaging the back of Andy’s neck. “That’s what I wanted to tell you about, Andy.”
Andy looked sideways at Sugar, his brow furrowed. “What, Sug?”
Sugar gripped Andy in a headlock, laughing playfully. He laughed at first too, but tried to break out of it. “Sug!”
“Andy, I spiked your beer. I’m sorry.”
Sugar grabbed Andy’s forehead, really grabbing his hair with her fingers. and kept a grip on his neck, holding it straight. She twisted fast and hard. Andy heard the dry popping of his neck breaking before he felt it – nothing. He felt nothing.
His legs fell out from underneath him.
“Sorry, Andy-Candy,” said Sugar. “Sorry.”
Vintage Gold Verbal Spew since 1990.
A REPOSITORY OF IMMATURE FICTION 
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