She dances with a wolf. She is a wide-hipped witch with long dark hair falling across her good eye. She is the stealthy one! A dogged dancer, perched on pointed toe, one butterfly swish from toppling from her marbled pedestal. She dances with a wolf and those slender leather boys of South Second Street.
Hardened folks—those able to shout blues and verses while spitting life into the center of gods’ one eye. A pain? No, just something enjoyed. A four-minute orgasm with two-weeks for recovery. A Robot’s survival record.
Anyway, this species is an intense animal. Even it’s most genetically unfortunate, can intently concentrate on sex. Complete attention—awareness subliminal and supreme.
Something new…uncomfortably proud. Wolf Dancer stands where others have crawled. This is her moment of reward and loss—of creation and accomplishment. Noticed and accepted—in ways too small or too large to understand or quantify.
Uncomfortable in that cycle of applause and proud in the shadows of silence. There—she has time to examine her prize with senses tuned for both good and wicked…She is as normal as any mutants found in these injured places.
She remembers warmth without fire.
And! Beautiful you are…