Look at the Polish people dance. They look like a collection of gaudy baubles and trinkets in an antique parlor. The place is dimly lit with dirty sanguine carpets and steamed linen tablecloths. What comes to mind is something like a Soviet speakeasy in East Berlin.
(more) Watch these Poles dance salsa. I swear you could smell the age peeling off their skin like dry, cracked paint.
The girl across from me smiles her shy adolescent smile and I repay her with my crooked teeth and a nervous, noncommittal grin. Her breath is heavy and sweet in the air. Her smile is crooked, too, but her teeth gleam like perfect white pearls in the flickering candlelight. It makes my blood hurt.
I feel physically ill as we sit and pick at the vacuous silence with knife and fork.
"I feel like dancing," she says.
"I don't," I say, comforting myself with the fact that I will never have to see her face again.(less)