Dancing At Night

[Paul de Denus]

His legs did the electric dance. They jumped involuntarily at the knees, an invisible marionette’s hand plucking hot-wired strings and the bed bounced with several thuds. His foot quivered and quaked in a humming two-step; the fat toe pulsed and poked as if fucking a wall outlet, the rest of the foot tingling in the afterglow. There was another thud – a whap really – his wife swatting the blankets. “Sorry,” he said, his voice the buzz of an annoying fly. “No more ice cream for you before bed,” she said from the other side of the dance floor.