Unrequited

She thought that seeing him again after all this time would be different, that she wouldn’t feel those things for him that she had before. With so much time passed she hoped she would finally have closure. They meet again around a table in a corner of the dance tent, hugging and holding each other, and she knows that nothing has changed. The D.J. starts and the group moves as one to the crowded dance-floor.
The darkened dance tent is red and glowing like a womb- the thumping bass line beats along with her heart. They are crushed together in the crowd of friends and strangers, inhaling the sweaty air, hot and smoky and alive. So many people surround them but she notices no one but him. Her whole body is alert and shaking, completely aware of his body wedged behind her; can feel his heat spreading into her.
Her view of the stage is obscured and she is squashed tight into the stranger in front of her. The smell of sweat is making her feel dizzy and she sways around, panting as she struggles to take in cleaner air. She feels his arms around her waist and with a flurry of movement she is up above the crowd, precarious atop his broad shoulders. His hair is sandy blonde and pushed up from his forehead in clumps by a red headband, she reaches to touch it. Her other arm is outstretched, bare and pale white, waving in time to the music. On the stage ahead of them the chords of her favourite song begin and she stretches open her mouth so wide it creases up her cheeks, and sings along. Her teeth are straight and white perfect aside from the little gap between the front two that used to make her feel awkward and shy. Her legs are wrapped around his neck and he runs a thumb along the naked flesh of her thigh and goose bumps prickle all over her body as the music and blood crashes in her head.
She throws her head back and closes her eyes behind mirrored aviators- their surface shows nothing but the reflection of the crowd, nearly black in the dark, and a shiny red slice of tent beneath the rim of her straw trilby. Pulled down low over her head, her hair tumbles out from beneath it. Bleached blonde and crispy dry it is matted with a long weekend’s dirt and the smell of smoke and mud and sweat; and the magic of possibility in this place.