The club is packed tonight, more so than usual even for a Friday night. It’s a very popular place. Sometimes even a celebrity or two will pop in. But it’s not a celebrity that I’m waiting for as I sit here at my usual table in a dim corner of the room, listening to the pulsing rhythm of the current song, sipping at my half empty bottle of beer. The smoke from the fog machines is floating along the floor and curling about my feet.

  She’s late, and I wonder if perhaps she won’t show up tonight. She comes here every Friday night at the same time, but maybe something came up. She’s never been late before. At least she hasn’t been as long as I’ve been coming here. But wait. There she is.

  She’s a waifish young woman, thin, fine-boned, a little on the short side. Her skin is pale and seems to glow under the lights. A fall of dark, wavy hair spills down her back nearly to her waist. Luminous blue eyes rimmed with thick black liner peek out from behind a few wisps of hair that have fallen into a pretty face with sharp cheekbones and full, pouting lips that sparkle with the glittery lip gloss she wears.

  I notice that she’s wearing one of my favorite outfits, the one she was wearing the first night I saw her: a slinky metallic silver halter top that leaves her back bare except for the string that ties in the back, a short black leather skirt, and knee-high black vinyl boots with spike heels.

  I watch as she moves toward the bar. She always has a drink and a cigarette before she joins the mass of writhing bodies on the dance floor. Not for the first time I wonder why I do this to myself. I don’t know this woman. I don’t know her name, where she works; I know nothing about her at all. And yet, I come to this club every Friday to sit here in this corner and watch her dance. The woman is a complete mystery. I think that’s part of the appeal, part of the reason why I’ve never spoken to her, never so much as said hello. I can’t bring myself to destroy the fascinating aura of mystery that envelops her, no matter how strong my desire to know every little thing that makes up her existence.

  There she goes, out onto the dance floor. I watch her; mesmerized by the way her body moves with the music. Her hips swaying in time to the beat of the song. Slender arms twisting in the air around her. Head tilted back. Eyes closed. From my vantage point, I can see her quite clearly. I can see the fine sheen of sweat beginning to glisten on her pale skin, the lights glinting off the flecks of glitter on her lips, the muscles cording in her thighs as she dances. Looking like a piece of living art and moving as though she is the music, she’s like some powerful drug, a poison I just can’t get enough of no matter how deadly it may be…that’s what I’ve begun to call her, my poison girl.

  I’ve tried to stop this insanity because I realize that it’s stalker behavior, but all my efforts have failed miserably. I tried coming to the club on Saturday nights instead, but I found myself sitting in the same corner, looking for her anyway. I tried going to different clubs, but I stopped doing that when I started seeing her face in the crowd even though I knew she wasn’t there. Nothing works. I just continue to spend my Friday nights watching her dance.

  It’s getting late now. She’s left the dance floor, heading in the direction of the bar again for one more drink before she leaves. She never stays for more than a few hours, and tonight is no exception. I’ll probably have another drink or two myself before I go home. I’ve satisfied my addiction for this week, but I’ll be back next Friday for another fix. Like I said, I can’t get enough of my poison girl. Maybe next time will be the night I actually speak to her…maybe…