Alice Whittenburg
In those days my friend Tracy and I went to Antoine’s every Tuesday night. We drank  margaritas and danced with polite, well-dressed men until closing time.

One winter evening a broad-shouldered man in a sharp gray suit came into Antoine’s. As he walked across the dance floor he seemed graceful and self-confident, but he mistook the full-length mirror along one wall for the entrance to another room. When he walked right up to the glass, it bounced him straight back. Tracy’s scornful laughter rang out during a lull in the music, and it flustered the sharp-dressed man. He bumped into the glass again. Then he disappeared.

“What just happened?” Tracy shouted over Parliament-Funkadelic. No one else seemed to have noticed anything strange. We left our drinks, went to the mirror… and stepped through. The sharp-dressed man seemed relieved to see us, and he asked us to dance.

Hypnotized by our unlikely location, we began to exert ourselves and invented some truly supple moves. Though we could still see the other dancers, it seemed as though they were behind gauze curtains.

We danced until silence stopped us. Then the other dancers left the club, the bartender closed the building, and darkness surrounded us. I asked, “Once we leave here, will we be mirror-marked forever?”

Truth to tell, though Tracy and the sharp-dressed man assured me it would not be so, after we found the TIXƎ and the outside world, I was ever afterward unsure which hand to lead with.

First published: November, 2014
© All rights reserved by the writer
Comments to the writer: