From the Proceedings of the Department of Moments:
Hulapalooza, our divine Miss Saturn‘s mostly-monthly hula-hooping burlesque show at Galapagos. The side door to the back dressing room winks open briefly between acts. The space beyond is bare and drab and bright; the forward bar, where I sit in a freshet of light with a drink and a copy of The Dark Tower, is dark and boisterous. The barmaid wears a cheerful green T-shirt that reads “50% Single.”
As the door nips shut, it frames a naked hooper, arms out and forward, swooping at the hips. The instant is sliced so thin that I can’t tell the sex of the dancer — there is just the shock-color of flesh, the spin, the hoop at full extension. Then the door cuts off the dance midstep, and the corner is dark.
I wonder which half.