“You don’t have to worry you’re the best thing here, the best thing on this dance floor.” She told me then winked. I stood there smiling, feeling good, a compliment is a compliment. I just wish she had been my age instead of the clear 30 year age difference we shared. I turned to my girlfriend smiling and I danced my way towards her. I looked around to see what she had meant and, besides the staff, I was the only one dancing. The best thing here. The only fucking thing here! But it had felt good, that compliment was what I had needed. I got closer to my girlfriend then just before I reached her I spun away and danced my way back to the old girl. I was in a mood, as her words floated through my head down my back and into my legs, they were moving on their own as I picked up the pace and kicked out the grooves. I spun once and stop dead dropped my head and did my best Elvis I could do. The jailhouse rock Elvis. The jailhouse rock Elvis where I could never understand the video. Men dancing in a jail block together had always struck me as a strange idea. I knew that a jail is either for men or for women, and if you want to dance well then you danced no matter who you danced with, but I just could not get my head around it but that was the look I followed. I looked slowly up, just following the King, to see the reaction from what I was doing and she was there clapping and smiling I knew I was doing something right. I smiled a sly victorious smile the kind of smile that comes from stealing candy off a baby then knowing that you have what you wanted but that it will not taste near as sweet as it would of had it been fought for fair and square. It was too easy and the elevator of guilt, of embarrassment, began to slowly rise knowing that I had used her for my own pride and knew that to the rest it was just a joke. The song came to an end and she lept up grabbing my arm as the notes to Crying by Roy Orbison came on. I let her hold me. I let her play disciple to a false messiah. I let her beg but knew I was the dog and the bone. I watched her old man watching me as I played it out; the game. I enjoyed her begging in front of him and with some sick sense I knew that that was what I needed to do to rescue them. To get them out of some sick rut that had hang over them for as long as they had stopped talking for. We had given each other a reason to go home that night. I, to my love, that I had stopped loving. Her, to a husband, that had stopped caring. It’s a funny little thing called love.