Page 26, Line 26 by Leah Royden
Inspired by page 26, line 26 of 'Dancers on a Plane' by John Cage, Merce Cunningham, and Jasper Johns.
Closing Time
The right hand side of the drawing shows an arm, traced with delicate lines, adorned with rosebuds and snaking vines. The letters to the left of the poster, A-R-M-S R-A-C-E T-A-T-T-O-O, are incomprehensible, a blurry mystery she doesn’t care to solve. It’s not what she’s looking for.
She totters on, past neon-lit shopfronts, through thumping bass and throngs of nightgoers. Shimmering sequins. Eat-me-alive plunge dresses.
“Got another?” she asks a lad blowing acrid smoke beneath an over-gelled fringe. He gapes as she plucks the cigarette from his hands and takes a deep drag, delicious chemical calm roiling in her lungs.
She winks, touching her tongue to her lips ever-so-slightly.
Light as a spark in the air, she dances through a doorway and down into the pulsing, hot crush of bodies below. The crowd parts as she moves, girls looking her up and down as she drinks in their poleaxed expressions with relish. She sways, alive and electric, music flickering over her skin and tickling her eyelashes. She tries to lift her arms above her head, but they feel so heavy. Something’s wrong.
Did I take something?
She can’t remember.
Her vision swims, and she’s suddenly aware of pain shooting up her legs. Her hands look wrong, melted and warped, pitiful shaking claws.
She can’t remember.
She collapses to the floor, fingers gritty-sticky, tears welling as the horrified crowd whispers and points.
Suddenly, relief.
A familiar middle-aged face, crumpled with worry, flanked by two men in uniforms.
“It’s OK”, the woman cries, hugging her close, stroking her hair.
“It’s OK, Mum.”