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The music is blasting in her ears, the bass line resonating into her body until it feels like it could replace her heartbeat. Dancing feels as easy and instinctual as breathing. This is her purpose; what she was always meant to do. The one moment in her life when she feels truly like herself.
It lasts for half a song, until she gets carried away with a spin and hears a crash behind her. Shit. She leaves her transe, and turns around to face the broken remains of a, frankly, pretty ugly vase.
“Sara, what the fuck!” She looks open to see James walking towards her, looking seriously pissed off.
James has been her friend ever since they were 13. They were both forced to join the football club, and bonded over their hatred of it. When Sara came out as trans and finally convinced her parents to let her take dance classes instead, James and her kept in touch. They had grown pretty close over the years, but even James could get upset when she messed things us. Especially in his own house.
“Oh God I’m sorry -” she briefly wondered if it was worth attempting to explain she was attempting to copy a ballet move she saw in Billy Elliot, and decided it probably wasn’t. “It wasn’t a precious thing, was it? I can replace it if you tell me where you bought it!” She definitely can’t, according to the number in her bank account.
James sighs. “It’s fine. Just… Help me clean this up, would you?”
She sweeps up what’s left of the vase, and the two of them head outside to throw them out. He is still frowning, and she starts to feel a tug of guilt in her heart.
“Are you sure you’re not mad at me?”
“I’m not, I-” He laughs. “Can I confess something? My mother-in-law got me this vase, and I’ve always hated it.”
She chuckles. “Thanks for not making me feel bad about it.”
“You’re welcome, as long as you stop twirling.” He knows that won’t stop her. “Let’s head back, alright?”
As they walk around the corner to go back inside, Sara notices that the kitchen door is still open. Strange. She thought they closed it behind them. She’s about to chalk it up to her forgetful nature when she notices that James is also looking at it with surprise.
As they get to the kitchen, they notice a bit of mud was dragged into the house. That definitely wasn’t from her or James - neither of them would get their shoes dirty.
“I didn’t see anyone else go outside…” James hesitates. “Would you mind checking upstairs? Just in case some animal has gotten in. I’ll check downstairs.”
She nods. Really all she wants is to go back to the living room to dance some more - a bit further away from the furniture this time. But there’s also a small part of her brain that likes to play pretend, and wants to believe there could actually be an animal up there. Maybe a cute raccoon who could become her sidekick.
She walks up the stairs. There are three doors there: a bathroom, a bedroom, and a closet, all of them closed. She tries the handles, just in case the animal is clever enough to open and close them. But when she tries for the bedroom door, she feels something blocking it from the other side.
She catches her breath. Animals can’t do that, especially those small enough to sneak in unnoticed. About a hundred true crime documentaries and horror movies go through her mind.
“Hello?”
There’s no response. She frowns. If it’s a robber, it’s a pretty bold one, walking into a house where a party is going on. What if it’s a guest who passed out? Or someone who was being pursued and tried to hide?
“Are you okay?” Still nothing.
She could assume it’s nothing, or turn around and ask James for help. But something in her - probably the same thing that made her think she could actually find an animal sidekick - is stopping her.
“If there’s someone in here, I can bust down this door.” She probably can’t. Dancing strengthened her legs and core, but not enough. “I don’t know who you are, but-”
“Could you shut up?”
Sara is startled. There’s a voice. For once, her imagination wasn’t wildly off.
“Why do you want me to shut up?”
There’s a soft groan. “ Please , keep your voice down. I’m hiding.”
“From who?”
“Shh!”
Sara stops herself from telling the voice that they’re not being much more quiet than she is. Instead, she says “I’ll be quiet if you open the door.”
There’s a pause. Then, the handle of the door jiggles and the door opens just a bit. She takes her chance, pushes in, and walks into the room. Nevermind the fact that it could be a robber - some things just sound interesting enough to risk it.
Once she’s in, she turns around to face the intruder - and her breath catches in her throat. It’s a woman, about her age, with long black hair, a white gothic dress, and a look in her eye like she’s angry at everything that led her to this situation.
“Who are you?”
The woman gives her a pointed look. “Is that your definition of being quiet? You’re not even whispering.”
“What are you doing here?” She does remember to whisper this time.
“I’m trying to avoid getting the cops called on me.”
Sara shivers. Has she misjudged the danger of her situation? Is she about to be brutally murdered?
“What did you do?”
The woman smiles for the first time. “Oh, just some minor vandalism. Don’t worry, I’m sure the people who own this house can afford to paint over it.”
That sentence snaps Sara out of her fascination. “What the fuck? What did they do to you?”
“Nothing personally.” She gestures at the bedroom they are in. “Look at this house. It’s a symbol. It’s part of a system of conformity, of class, of privilege.” She flips her hair with the confidence of someone who’s certain they’re making a great point. “Why is society worshiping this system, instead of caring about real issues? Like, climate change, and all of that stuff.”
She blinks a few times, unable to come up with a response to that speech. She’s been in enough art spaces to recognize when someone is bullshitting their artist statement, and yet this feels different. There is something genuine underneath the pretension.
But, ultimately, she is a friend before being an artist. “You must have gotten the wrong house. The owners don’t worship any system. They give a shit ton to charity, and they’re super leftist.”
“It’s not about James and Max.” She’s surprised. How does she know the names of James and his husband? Is she a friend of theirs? “It’s about the system, and the freedom to do art. Do you care about art?”
“I’m a professional dancer. Of course I care.”
“Then you know just what I mean.” Not at all, but she’ll play along. “Real art has to be messy and disturbing to be effective.”
She thinks back of the vase she broke. “Yeah, I get it.”
The woman smirks, almost condescendingly. Like she thinks she knows everything. It should be incredibly annoying, yet there’s something about her that draws Sara in.
“Hey, what’s your name?”
“Are you asking so you can turn me in to the cops?” She frowns, then adds. “That’s a joke. People have told me that it’s hard to tell when I’m joking. My name is Hunter. You?”
“Sara. How do you know James and Max?”
“I live a few streets away. They brought me cake when I moved in. But I don’t think they like me.”
That might have to do with the house vandalizing, Sara thinks. But she doesn’t say it.
“So, you’re a dancer?”
“I am! I’m trying to make it a full time job, it’s not enough to pay all the bills right now, but it’s getting there…” She cuts herself off. “The short of it is I get hired for corporate events to go on the dancefloor. So people don’t feel as self conscious about joining in.”
“That’s a terrible fucking job. Do you like it?”
Sara brightens. “I do. I get to do my favorite thing in the world and encourage other people to do it too.”
Hunter doesn’t reply to that - instead, she lays down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, lost in thoughts. Without saying a word either, Sara lies down next to her.
The two women stay like that for a few minutes before Sara’s phone buzzes in her pocket. It’s a text for James: “Where are you? I have more ugly vases you could break.” She smiles.
“Hey Hunter? Do you know there’s a party downstairs?”
“I heard the music, yes.”
Sara turns towards her and grins. “Do you want to go to the party with me?”
Hunter looks back, still frowning, but less so. “The first thing I told you is that I’m hiding. Going to the party would sort of ruin that, don’t you think?”
“Well, maybe. Or, maybe -” excitement grows in her voice. “Maybe it’s a double bluff. Would a vandal go party into the house they just vandalized? Think about it.”
Hunter hums, considering it. “It’s… a passable plan.” She rises to her feet and re-adjusts her crinkled dress. “I’ll take the risk.”
Their eyes meet, and they both grin.
_____
When they get to the living room, most guests are too busy chatting to notice them joining in. Only one person, who Sara doesn’t really know, nods to acknowledge them. The music has switched up to a Mother Mother album that Sara loves.
She turns to Hunter. “Wanna dance with me?”
“Oh I don’t dance. But you should, I’ll go get myself a drink. I have to take advantage of the free alcohol.”
She turns around and heads to the buffet in the corner. Sara moves to the center of the room - far from the furniture, she does remember to check this time - and closes her eyes to study the song. This calls for something slow, mechanical, focused on arm movements. She taps her foot to the beat, getting ready to start dancing, when, for the second time tonight, she’s interrupted by James.
“Why is Hunter here?”
He didn’t ask her specifically, just said it out loud to the few people around him. Thankfully, Hunter - or the rest of the guests - didn’t hear him. She can still salvage this. She grabs his arm and drags him to the hallway.
“Hey James, What’s going on?”
He knows her too well. “This is your fault, isn’t it?”
She giggles nervously. “Ok, it’s not a big deal, but…”
“Sara.” It sounds like a warning.
“Ok, ok. I ran into Hunter” - that’s not technically a lie - “and we talked a little bit. She seemed really cool, so I asked her if she wanted to come to the party with me.”
She can tell by the way he looks at her that she’s really trying his patience. “Well, I guess that explains the graffiti outside.” Oh no. Hunter’s vandalism. “Have you seen it?”
“No, I…”
“Oh, you definitely should,” he interrupts.
He takes her outside, in front of the garage door. She doesn’t even notice it, at first. It takes her a minute to spot the small words written in what seems to be sharpie all over the door.
“basic.” “meh.” “stupid.”
“That’s…” Not what she imagined. Better than what she feared. Maybe a little stupid.
James laughs. “I’m pretty sure that can be washed off pretty easily. It may even be easier than cleaning off every bit of the vase you broke.” She wants to protest, but now’s not the time. “I just wanted you to see it, before she could seduce you with tales of her grand vandalism and high art.”
“She didn’t!” She replies, a little too fast. “She - there was no seducing.”
“Weirdly defensive, but sure.” Before she can dig herself in any deeper, he adds: “Look, you can do whatever you want. But I thought you should know that I know her, and she can be… Rude. And maybe mean and pretentious too. I’m not gonna kick her out of the party or anything, but… be careful, alright?”
She wants to say he doesn’t need to take care of her, or that she doesn’t plan on getting involved with Hunter, or even that seeing the graffiti was enough to kill off any attraction there could have been, but none of that is true. Instead, she simply offers to help him clean up in the morning, then heads back inside.
_____
Hunter accosts her the moment she crosses the door to the living room. She hands her a drink - it looks like a fruity cocktail, Sara doesn’t have a clue where she found it. “There you are! No one confronted me about the vandalism yet, I think they don’t have a clue. I didn’t see you dancing though.”
“James was… asking me something, it’s not important. Are you having fun?” Now that James has pointed it out, she’s very aware of how much she’s staring at Hunter’s face, absorbed by her long lashes, her thin lips, her cheekbones… It makes it easy to forget everything James just told - and showed - her.
“I was people-watching.” Hunter points to the woman who nodded at them earlier. Sara can’t remember her name, she just knows she’s a colleague of Max. “She’s gone through drinks in a very short time, but she doesn’t look drunk at all. That means she must drink a lot and often, so she’s probably a big party person, or - she copes with her problems with alcohol.” She nods confidently.
Sara wonders if she’s watched a lot of Sherlock. She looks at the woman in question as she gets yet another drink at the buffet. “She’s drinking orange juice, not alcohol. That’s why she’s not drunk.”
“Oh.” Hunter blushes ever so slightly. “Well, whatever. Who goes to a party and drinks orange juice?”
Sara knows that she should be annoyed, but yet again, she can’t bring herself to dislike anything about Hunter. She puts her drink down on the table. “Please dance with me.”
Hunter cocks her head to the side and frowns. “I told you, I don’t dance.”
“But have you ever danced with a professional dancer before?” She wants to sound cool and seductive, but she can’t hide her eagerness. James says she’s like a golden retriever, and she’s certainly proving him right.
She offers her her hand like she’s Mr Darcy and Hunter is… Whoever, Sara never read that book. Hunter looks down, and finally uncrosses her arm to take it.
“Don’t make me regret this.”
Mother Mother is still playing, although Sara doesn’t know this song. Mindful of Hunter, she doesn’t go full dancer. She starts just swaying, then adds some gentle steps. Her body wants to push it, to go into choreography, but she contains herself.
Hunter awkwardly imitates her, although she’s terribly off beat. She’s also blushing and very clearly trying not to draw any attention to herself. Which is fine, because Sara has a way of attracting all eyes on her when she dances - although not always for good reasons.
As the song progresses, Sara gathers her courage and puts her arms around Hunter’s shoulders, who puts hers around Sara’s waist, not without hesitation. Technically, that makes Hunter the leader, but Sara still guides her, keeping them swaying.
It probably lasts about a minute, until the song ends and they have to separate. Hunter mumbles something about getting her drink and walks away. Sara catches James’ eyes, who raises one eyebrow at all. She sticks her tongue out at him.
Hunter joins her again, handing Sara her drink. “I couldn’t do that for a job, it’s exhausting.”
“Well, regular practice increases your stamina-” Shit, that was suggestive. “It’s a skill, not something you’re born with.”
Hunter nods. “Has anyone ever told you your dancing looks like rigor mortis?”
“What’s that?”
“When people die, their body stiffens, and they feel a bit like a statue. Some of the positions people freeze in are really interesting.”
“Oh. Is it a compliment?”
“Depends on how you feel about rigor mortis, I suppose. I love it, personally.”
That’s definitely a creepy thing to say. Maybe Sara’s first instincts were right, and she really is talking to a serial killer. “What do you mean?”
“I’m a funeral director.” Sensing Sara’s confusion, she adds: “I cremate and embalm dead bodies for their funeral and burial.” Less creepy, but still Sara feels a thrill of excitement. Of course the cool goth girl has an equally cool goth job. That makes her even more interesting, as though Sara wasn’t already fascinated.
She allows her imagination to run wild for a second. “Are you ever scared the body you’re working on will turn out to be a vampire?”
“Yes, that’s why I always have a wooden stake with me at work.” She takes a sip from her drink. She did warn Sara it was difficult to tell when she was joking. “I imagine you meet less supernatural creatures in your field?”
She smiles. “Just booing audiences.”
“God, that’s scarier.” She looks to the buffet table, and Sara once again admires how pretty she is when she contemplates something. “I’m getting a drink, do you want anything?”
Sara nods and follows her. Hunter gathers a few different bottles to make a cocktail, which surprisingly turns out excellent. She asks her where she learned mixology, and Hunter launches into a story about her college days. They keep talking for a while, then go back to the dancefloor. Hunter films her dancing, then asks her for her Instagram so she can post the video. Sara’s heart skips a beat when she realizes that means her and Hunter can text each other after tonight. She’ll have to remember to post a few flattering selfies.
_____
As the party reaches its end, guests start to clear out, and Sara has to turn to Hunter with a sad smile and say: “I guess that means we should leave too, right?”
Hunter doesn’t meet her eyes, and for a second Sara thinks she sees her grip on her glass tighten. “Probably.”
Sara collects her jacket and bag while Hunter waits outside. They say goodbye to James and Max, and everyone pretends they don’t know she just defaced their property.
When they close the front door, Hunter sighs. “I would ask you if you want to see my vandalism, but I’m afraid people are going to be suspicious if they see me looking at it.”
“Right.” Sara stops herself from laughing. She tries to put on her best disappointed face. “I guess I’ll go back to see it tomorrow, once you’ve made your getaway.”
They walk in the same direction for a few streets. Neither of them say anything, but they stay close, their arms brushing together with each step. It’s dark, but the streetlamps are enough for Sara to notice how Hunter’s face reddens in the cold.
Fuck, she really is pretty.
Finally, they reach the intersection where their paths diverge. It feels like heartbreak to move away from Hunter.
Sara tries to remember what she’s supposed to say as a goodbye. “I had a good time.” She cringes. That sounds like what you say after an awkward one night stand.
“I had fun too.” They make eye contact, and Hunter gives her a look. Maybe it’s the way the streetlamp highlights her eyes, but Sara finds her footing again. She knows what to do.
She leans down, slowly enough to telegraph her intention so Hunter can step away, then, when she doesn’t, she kisses her.
It’s short and sweet, the kind of shy kiss you see in 50s movies. But, as she moves away, Hunter stands on her tiptoes and grabs the back of her neck, kissing her again. It lasts longer this time; they forget the cold and the dark. Hunter’s lips still taste like the cocktail she made, sugary and sweet - very unlike her, but it’s intoxicating all the same.
When they finally part for good, Hunter keeps her hand on Sara’s shoulder, and whispers: “I’m glad you invited me to the party.”
Then, she steps away, and walks off into another street. Sara has to take a second to breathe before she can do the same.
The next morning, she opens Instagram to the video Hunter posted, with the simple caption:
“rigor mortis.”