Reflections of Neon

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Al's Disco Dive was, by all modern standards, an oddity - something which sat just outside downtown, seemingly unburdened by the pressures of time. The cool pink hue of its neon sign played off the damp street and cut paths of rose colored light through the fog. It was a beacon of sorts.

Gene strode through the darkness, his wingtip shoes smacking evenly against the pavement. As he approached the doors he adjusted his wide brim glasses one last time and ran a hand over his quaffed hair. Show time.

Gene didn't really enter rooms so much as take them over. Pushing open the heavy wooden doors, he flowed into the building, hips and feet moving as if they had a special agreement with gravity. He was unstoppable and untamed - he was electric. He was a man out of time.

As he boogied through the venue towards the bar, his ice blue eyes picked through the dancers. There were the regulars, of course. They swung and danced in the shimmering lights of the disco balls and other timed lighting fixtures. While beautiful in their own right, it wasn't what Gene was after. As he finally reached the bar, though, he spotted it. His purpose and his treasure.

A younger man, maybe twenty, danced alone. Whether or not he came that way or was summarily abandoned by his party was a mystery. One that didn't really matter to Gene. What mattered was the here and now.

He stuck his hand up to the barkeep. Two - my regular. Shortly thereafter two double whiskeys slid across the bar, their dark brown liquid refracting the brilliance of that soulful haven. Gene collected them and began moving towards the man, dancing through the crowd in a way that almost made one wonder if the room was simply moving around him.

"Hey there," Gene shouted over the din of the music, "first time?"

The young man blushed slightly. "Uh - well. Yeah. I came with some friends, but..." his eyes quickly flicked around the crowded room, knowing full well they would not find the party he had accompanied.

Gene shushed him, and proffered forward one of the glasses he held.

"I don't know..." the young man laughed nervously. "I'm not even - "

The raised eye brow Gene expressed seem to shut down his protest. He had that effect on people. The young man took the glass hesitantly, then downed its contents, coughing raucously.

Gene laughed lightly, and twirled himself around. As he finished his maneuver, he deftly tossed his full glass onto the top of his other hand and brought it to his mouth. He downed the glass in a deep draw, arching his whole body in a limbo-like move.

"You wanna learn?" Gene smiled.

The young man looked unsure.

"Got a name?"

"Trevor. Uh, well.. yeah. Just Trevor. And well.. I'm not sure. I've never really liked dancing, honestly. It was their idea to come here."

Gene rolled his eyes dramatically at this. "Well, just Trevor, history is nothing more than a tableau of crimes and misfortunes. Big ones, little ones, all the same. Is your dancing a crime? Is it a misfortune? If so, I doubt it's big enough to make the books. Hell, most people here won't even remember." Gene pulled him closer as he finished. "People are embarrassed by untamed passion, but I love it."

Trevor blushed again, deeper. Yet, he began to look to Gene. So they began to dance. Under the warm neon and twinkling light cast out by the disco balls, they moved with passion. Anxiety fell away as a shroud, replaced only by warmth and self expression. It was pure and simple and beautiful.

The pair did this after most of the patrons left. They did it until the workers kicked them out, past closing. So, with no effort to hide it, they sighed in all the disappointment of waking from a sweet dream as they were cast out into the cold night.

"Can I get your number?" Trevor asked. Gene smiled at this. Far from the timid boy he was only a few hours ago.

Trevor pulled out his phone, a sleek new smartphone all wrapped in a carbon black case. Gene's eyes shifted and he frowned slightly.

"Tsk. Smartphones. Call me old fashioned," he paused and gestured at the disco establishment behind him, laughing, "but I always found them distracting."

Trevor laughed, half paying attention as he unlocked his phone and began opening up a new contact template. For that reason he never saw Gene's knife as it plunged deeply into his neck. It grated on the spinal column, paralyzing him instantly. The red blood mixed with the rosy neon to create a mural of warmth, both comforting and sickening.

Gene was, at his core, a man of passion.

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[WC: 799]