The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

The Tea Dance 
by Alex Grehy

There were other couples there, of course,

but I only had eyes for him, What a cliche 

I thought, then his amber gaze

captured me, his charm reaching out 

even as he extended his hand.

.

“Lady, will you dance with me?”

.

I’d met him on the subway, just a week ago,

went for a coffee, chatted for hours, agreed

to meet again, spending a little more time 

together every day. Which seems so unlike me, 

when I think on it, in those lucid moments 

when I am not dreaming about the soft 

attraction of his voice, unthreatening, platonic. 

.

He invited me to this tea dance, 

civilised, safe.

.

“Lady, will you dance with me?”

.

He asks again, kissing my hand. He sweeps

me into a waltz, my feet following his lead, 

so courtly, so strong, one hand in mine, 

the other on my waist. When the music stops, 

so does the dance, the couples standing still, 

sculptured and lovely.

.

He leads me to the gramophone, flips the

heavy shellac disc, laying the stylus on the

outer groove. He bids me turn the handle.

The dancers come alive.

.

I tug my hands loose, wanting 

to applaud the dancers. 

The plush furnishings disappear, 

we are in a bare basement,

grey concrete, the only decoration 

four bright red hosereels and

the antique gramophone.

.

I see the others moving strangely 

to rhythms that have nothing to do 

with the vintage orchestra that 

I hear playing from the horn.

.

The men are smiling, their lips parted

hungrily, even as their partners gyrate. 

A tango, the twist, a jive, they dance to 

music only they can hear, in a place only

they can see.

.

I laugh, their antics are so funny. I snap

out of my torpor – what am I doing here?

Why did I come to this shabby dive with

a man I barely know. Why am I being

such a bitch, mocking these strangers,

when I should be warning them against…

Against what? They look so happy. 

.

My partner cups my face in his hands.

Immersed in his beauty, I am, once again, 

a lady, a porcelain treasure, as I have 

always secretly dreamt of being.

.

He sweeps me round the room, the other 

dancers no more substantial than shadows.

I am elated, fulfilled, as I have never felt 

before, then the music stops.

.

He holds my hand, turns it gently,

kisses me on the wrist, the sting of 

his teeth so tender. I am lost in his

gaze. How kind he is I think, to drink

my blood so gently.

.

He pauses for a second, whispering 

that I am special, that I can join him

if I choose. I nod and smile, he drinks of

me once more. 

.

The ecstasy of his bite overwhelms 

my will. Yet still I turn my head to 

watch the others feeding, 

greedily, messily. 

.

The women’s mouths are open.

Screaming, I assume, but the

sounds are just a descant to the

melody that guides my feet.

.

I feel a jewelled tear flow down my cheek, 

he wipes it away with a soft hand,

“Do not be sad” he whispers,

“they will not suffer long.”

.

But my tears are for my beautiful

beaded silk dress, the trailing hem 

hopelessly stained by the 

blood drenching the floor

.

Fiction © Copyright Alex Grehy
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

More from author Alex Grehy:

After a lifetime of writing technical non-fiction, Alex Grey is fulfilling her dream of writing poems and stories that engage the reader’s emotions. Her work has been featured by a wide range of publications including Siren’s Call, Raconteur, Bookends Review, and Toasted Cheese. One of her comic poems is also available via a worldwide network of public fiction dispensers managed by French publisher, Short Edition. Her ingredients for contentment are narrow boating, greyhounds, singing and chocolate. It is a sweet life, yet Alex’ original view of the world has led to her best friend to say ‘For someone so lovely, you’re very twisted!

Please click here to discover more!