She is an industrial girl. Her hair, as much as I can see in the flashing darkness and smoke, is green, and in little clumps of braids all over her head. She is wearing baggy jeans, almost phat, but she would never wear anything so crass as those. A bit of her tummy shows above her studded belt and below the bottom of her shirt, which has a fairie on the front and stars on the sleeves. A telltale sparkle tells me that her septum is pierced. A glittery choker, and sensible shoes complete the outfit. Her curves attract me, right after her hair; and I can see the muscles on her stomach that develop when a curvy girl has a lot of sex. She bounces.

I doubt she even notices me, although it sometimes seems, when we are the only two dancing, that we dance around each other, like leaves caught in a whirlpool.

She affects my dancing, making me spin more, making me move my arms in flowy waves, though not liquiding; she makes me remember why I stopped moving my arms like that. It hurts, but I do it anyway. I try not to stare, but my gaze is inevitably drawn to her. She dances almost like I do, but with a feminine grace that I could never match, not even in my belly-dancing and gender dysphoria days. She belly-dances to Wreath of Barbs and Slut; without breaking stride she begins to flail and convulse to Hocico. She is beautiful.

At one point I almost have the courage to go and tell her so, but I know that she would lose everything that makes her special, unless she didn't. But no, she could never live up to my ideal of her, even if she was a geek girl, in love with Chuck P and VNV Nation, the embodiment of a future pop attitude, a chaote. She would still let me down.

I see her in the light, once, she is friends with my friends. She is disappointing, even though I can see the glitter on her cheeks now, and that her hair is actually a greener shade of turquoise. Still, I watch her moving in the darkness, and I love her, whatever imperfections she may have.