I’ll never forget the day I met Misty. You might think I’d regret that day, if you hadn’t seen her elegance, grace and serenity. If you hadn’t seen Misty move like an angel.
I’d left my Honeywell office and stopped for a nightcap in Old Town Scottsdale. Six months had passed since my boss had ordered me to the bible church to “reclaim my inner man.” Now, I’d given all that up and I found myself lonely in the evening, back at the bars on Stetson Drive. I’d dressed for the occasion with my best wrangler shirt and string tie, boots shined and black hair slicked back to perfection. I passed over the canal, by storefronts that sported stylish western wear, restaurants that specialized in funky cowboy chow and even a dog spa before I found the club and pulled open its heavy door.
I sat alone close to the stage, at a low table, squeezed into a chair made for a smaller man, cradling my tumbler of single malt scotch. The floodlights cast rainbow spirals in the murky darkness. The primal beat of Rihanna’s “Skin” reverberated through my body. A dancer, sleek and supple, appeared in the dimly lit corner of the stage. In perfect sync with the beat, she crawled into the spotlight and began to weave her magic. As she raised her torso, her sculpted features and full pink lips filled the spotlight’s glow.
I leaned forward in my chair and caught her eye. The dancer, honey-colored hair swinging freely from her ponytail, shot me a veiled look, raised her arms, reached for, shimmied up and slid down a pole. She gripped it, arched her back, whirled into a carousel spin. I grabbed my phone, clicked on the video and caught her mid-air as she stretched and leaped between the two poles with ballerina grace.
I watched, spellbound.