|There Are No Shadows Here (Prose)
||[Feb. 11th, 2009|06:02 pm]
There are no shadows here.|
That is, in fact, its selling feature.
Light gets into every corner, reflects off every surface. Music and jasmine are thick in the air, and champagne flows like water. Men with gold watch fobs and women with red lips and satin gowns, gather here to laugh and dance, sip wine from crystal glasses and forget, for a time, that the outside world exists.
Here, strangers become lovers in the space of a song. They cling to each other in twos and threes, their skin glistening with sweat and diamonds.
High above the whirling crowd, the moans and sighs of lovers, the skirl of music, there are windows in the domed ceiling. During the day, when the halls are empty, when the beautiful girls and boys who populate this place are sleeping off the previous night, shadows form as easily as breathing. One can track the passage of the day by the way the light moves across the floor. But at night the mirrors and chandeliers conspire and no shadow may appear that it does not fade or flee at the touch of light.
It’s said that if you come here once, you will leave a part of yourself behind and will return, again and again, trying to find it.