Beautiful Lies

It was a humid afternoon. Since rain showered lightly, the road was wet. My hands were also wet. The sky was dotted with a few candyfloss clouds. The entrance of the gym could be seen in the distance and the long queues edged forward slowly. Attendees were becoming increasingly excited and impatient as they took a few steps forward every so often. Faint music could be heard from inside the gym with the occasional happy mood suddenly piercing the air. Closer to the entrance, the sound was loud and mellow. My partner reached for my shoulder and we started to embark our journey inside. 

Everyone was elated. Grandiose gossamers and black tarnished suits with matching fancy make-up were exhibited, making the wearers look ostentatious and refined. They wore their masks like it’s a part of them, a shadow and limelight, a fake personality, a faux identity—a valley of dolls. 

Celestial eyes shone behind their masks as they danced with each other in the lieu of soothing music; they turned and twirled as if they were professionals. They grooved and jived as if they rehearsed it. 

For them it felt like to dance was freedom, like a blossoming flower or a bird aloft. To feel the movement was new breath to their body and nourishment for their soul so tired. They could dance until the sweat dripped to the cemented floor. 

To be honest, I didn’t really enjoyed the night. The food was a major turn-off. The ‘disco’ was beneath me. I couldn’t tolerate the trashy, indecent, and titillating music. 

At the end of the night, the dance floor was like an abused chess board. On it's black and white squares were spilled drinks and broken glass. With the lights up for cleanup, the whole scene that had seemed so exciting and ecstatic and the painted smiles on the staff's faces were now sagged into the epitome of exhaustion and no one could wait for the night to end.