Chapter 8
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and force a frown. The music comes from a small boom box plugged into the wall below the mirror. In the reflection I see others milling around, a half dozen women all older than me—called that one. All swaying to the music without inhibition. All chattering, talking amongst themselves, voices raising over the pounding beat.
Apparently I’m not late enough—class hasn’t started yet. Damn.
In one corner sits a piano and, at the piano, sits a gorgeous young lady about my age. Her blonde hair is pulled back from her face so it falls in a cascade of curls down her back. Her face is taut and pretty and tan, her lips and eyelids shimmering with make-up, her teeth perfectly even and white. A man leans over her shoulder, his back to me, but I recognize his ponytail, his narrow waist, his strong arms.
Travis