Buenos Aires – Prompt Night A Dash of Sunny


If you let me

I would dance with you

I would offer my hands

my waist, my hips

my lips would almost …

leave their coral stain on your cheek

If you let me


If you let me

I would entice you with my feather feet

spark the floorboards

with my fiery stamp

whisper my fingertips over your wrist

and watch your pupils dilate at the very idea

If you let me


I will dance on my own

until then

I will be the vibration of the air

until then

I will be the music

alone –

until then.


Will you let me?


This week over at A Dash of Sunny, we are asked to write about dance. I took a slightly different tack, hence the picture I have included above. Here in the UK, with all of the political wranglings that are taking place, we seem to be in the midst of an overt anti-difference backlash. I don’t like it, not one bit. Everyone is equal. Nobody deserves to be marginalised.

Please do head on over to take part, or just read other offerings, if that’s all you want to do. But most of all, enjoy!




Liz, who reviews books, considers herself to be a plain woman. Not ugly, not even mousey, just not pretty, and certainly not striking. She is unremarkable in every way. Except… the books that she reviews are what, back in the day, Uncle Joe would refer to as bodice rippers, whilst winking in that oily way of his and digging her in her teenage ribs, revelling in the red heat that would rise on her cheeks like a hormone-induced tidal wave.

Strangely, once Uncle Joe discovered that racy literature was her bread and butter, he left her alone. Sometimes, she would find him in the kitchen with Mother and sense that the privacy she had unknowingly breached consisted solely of his unadulterated opinion of her eminently unsuitable job. Not a career mind, just a job, whilst she waited to settle down and produce babies for a grey accountant in the City.

Liz had taken up the Argentine Tango not long after reviewing her first book for Forbidden Fruit. She knew, self-aware that she was, that in the heady environment of swirling skirts and impossibly intimate leg flicks, she truly came into her own. She had found her métier, at last.

Little did Uncle Joe realise that she had spotted him once, not quite hidden at the back of the dimly lit audience at the Meppersley Wood Working Men’s Club. as she swirled, cavorted and leaned in to the tight body of Pablo, her dancing instructor and on-again, off-again fervent and temperamental paramour.

She had seen the sheen of sweat on Uncle Joe’s brow and temples, watched with satisfaction as his cheeks glowed with desire. He had failed to recognise her as he lusted after her full breasts and sinuous, writhing hips.

Oh yes, she is a plain woman in every respect, except that is, on the dance floor.