Page 2 of Twisted Little Thing

I will never understand why the majority of human beings still pursue this as their life’s goal. Sure, they may be able to live in nicer places than Yuka and me, eat at fancier restaurants and spend more money on clothes and accessories designed to impress and make their life shine.

But when do they have time to think? To create? To enjoy life? There is so little room for creativity in their lives, so little room to think outside the box. I almost feel sorry for them. Almost.

And even worse, he might be the boss, the CEO – a leading figure. Not a slave himself but a slave driver.

Then again, right now, for whatever reason, this guy is at the same club, drinking the same beer as I am.

I feel as if he is still looking at me, but I don't dare check. Instead, I decide to distance myself from him and the bar and finish my beer somewhere else. There is a strong urge to turn around and look back at him to see whether my intuition is right, but I am able to withstand it and continue weaving my way through the crowd next to the dance floor.

Let's see who else is here.

I stop and lean against a weirdly located stone pillar in the middle of the room that marks the edge of the dance area. I scan my surroundings. A lot of interesting and alternative characters are shaking their limbs, more wildly than one might see at other locations, but still a lot better looking than the spectacle I turn out to be every time the music hits me.

Lots of pretty boys, too, with wild clothes and hair, tattoos and spikes, rough facial hair, and tattered jeans. But none of them really manages to draw my interest. In an environment like this, they are the ones who fit it – and it appears that my weird brain always looks for the one who stands out from his surroundings, no matter what.

So I catch myself looking for him. The out of place yuppie who does not adhere to the dress code expected at this particular club. But he is nowhere to be found.

It might be for the better. With my luck, his story will be just as boring as his looks would be to me if we had met somewhere else.

A good song comes up and I decide that my break is over. I quickly finish my beer and head back to the dance floor.

As usual, my moves confuse and irritate the people around me, even in this crowd. But I don't care. This is how I dance, this is how I enjoy myself. I am not dancing for others, but for myself.

My eyes are closed as I sense and move to the music in my own way, deeply immersed in my little universe. Even though I am not drunk, not even tipsy, I feel as if I am floating, all alone, dizzy with devotion. Intoxication is so overrated – who needs drugs and alcohol when you have music.

Once again, I cannot help but lose myself in it. I spin and turn, shaking my body without regard to others – until I brutally bump into someone and almost knock them over.

"Oh, sorry I –" I hurry to apologize, opening my eyes to see who I stumbled into.

It's him.

The smug yuppie from the bar is standing next to me, smiling and holding onto my arm as if he was trying to keep me from running away. I stare back at him in surprise and form the word "sorry" with my lips again before freeing myself of his grip.

He is standing so close that I can smell him – and he smells good, too yummy.

Damn.

I hastily turn around and flee to another area of the dance floor.

There is something about this guy that irritates me – or appeals to me. I don't know what it is, but it’s definitely confusing. He is so different from any of the guys I have fallen for before. Completely different. And he looks like someone I should hate. Why is he rattling me so much?

I need some fresh air so I head for the door. The bored bouncer hardly glances at me as I squeeze through the narrow exit next to him. It is getting late, and by now more people are leaving the club then entering it. I have my mini shoulder bag with me and could go home if I wanted to. But I am not ready yet. I feel that there is at least one more song in me.

It is still early summer and the temperatures drop during the night. But as I flee out of the club, covered in sweat and my body burning with the heat of exhaustion, the cool breeze outside feels fantastic.

There is a bunch of other people seeking refreshment outside, gathering in little groups in front of the club's entrance, often spoiling the fresh summer air with the stench of cigarettes. I distance myself from them, but not without casting somewhat longing looks in their direction.

I could use a smoke right now – but I left mine at home in my ongoing attempt to cut down on my unhealthy habit. I just turned twenty-five, and though I haven't been smoking for that long or even that much, I feel like I am already feeling the bad effects from it – or at least imagining that I am. That might be Yuka’s influence, though. She’s the biggest anti-smoker I know.

I sigh and try to relax on my own, just me and the summer night’s breeze, no cigarette, no friends, no weirdly appealing yuppies.

Except, as it turns out, I am wrong about the yuppie part.

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