Every photo has a story:
She danced. She danced very well. She danced with gestures. With ideas. With promises. With anticipation and anxiety. Moving ahead with the type of firmness and assuredness owned by a person who holds in their hands a winning lottery ticket; the type of huge prize that people, other than oneself, seldom win.
She moved towards the end of the night. Towards the beginning of what she was really after. She danced with my imagination. Without moving. Static yet glowing. As if she was a neon figure and I, a poor drunk in a dive bar.