Dancing In The Headlights Quotes

I dismissed this course of action, sensing my own reserves of strengths, but I experimented with the idea and took it as far as I could in a game I christened Bus Stop: on summer nights, I would stretch out on the road in front of my house, on hot, grainy asphalt scattered with sharp bits of gravel, and watch and wait for growling motors, the blinding movement of headlights, and I weighed up the pros and cons, what tied me to life like a blood oath, what left me cold, or tired me out; and when the noise grew sharper, more grating, and when the headlights from the first bend in the road began to cut out the sides of the buildings and project a slow, revolving shadow dance on the wall, I always came back to the same conclusion - that I felt something stir inside me, as hazy and phony as a childhood memory, as insistent as a hit song you'd heard so often you couldn't get its bitterness out of your head, something that promised me a better future, only somewhere else. And I would unpeel myself from the road, I'd pick myself up, what was left of me, what could still be of some use, and slowly make my way back to the pink gravel of the sidewalk, just like the one my little retarded friend was standing on this morning as stoic as an abandoned house awaiting demolition.

She awoke knowing what she had been dreaming about. She was a deer in the headlights to his grinning face. In those first moments before she was fully awakened she hadn’t had time to hide her true feelings. He’d read them loud and clear. This was the moment that would start the seductive tango. There was one giant problem. Kayn could not dance her way out of a paper bag.

As we drove off into the moonless night, raindrops danced through our headlights like the fireflies of my childhood. I silently cursed the frailty of happiness and doubted whether it ever existed for me. I could remember happier times, though, and those memories fluttered about my mind like fireflies, beckoning with their elusive splendor. But chasing memories held no more promise than catching fireflies. The pursued feelings either vanished or lost their magic upon examination, hardly the green-glowing beauty seen at a distance. So I looked ahead of me and dreamed on into the darkness, hoping to one day find someone who would love me.

I was not able to sleep that night. To be honest, I didn’t even try. I stood in front of my living room window, staring out at the bright lights of New York City. I don’t know how long I stood there; in fact, I didn’t see the millions of multicolored lights or the never-ending streams of headlights and taillights on the busy streets below. Instead, I saw, in my mind’s eye, the crowded high school classrooms and halls where my friends and I had shared triumphs and tragedies, where the ghosts of our past still reside. Images flickered in my mind. I saw the faces of teachers and fellow students I hadn’t seen in years. I heard snatches of songs I had rehearsed in third period chorus. I saw the library where I had spent long hours studying after school. Most of all, I saw Marty. Marty as a shy sophomore, auditioning for Mrs. Quincy, the school choir director. Marty singing her first solo at the 1981 Christmas concert. Marty at the 1982 Homecoming Dance, looking radiant after being selected as Junior Princess. Marty sitting alone in the chorus practice room on the last day of our senior year. I stared long and hard at those sepia-colored memories. And as my mind carried me back to the place I had sworn I’d never return to, I remembered.

The car rolled slowly along the deserted corniche, headlights cleaving its way through Beirut by night. In gentle swerves to avoid potholes, the Mercedes waltzed along a straight road in a dance of death. Sick palm trees and parched grass divided the tarred road of civilization. The sea alone was testimony to God’s beautiful creation. But in its belly, corpses, limbs, garbage, and ordnance mingled with a sea life on the verge of extinction.

A brilliant collaboration of headlights and spotlights illuminated the scene. The eerie lighting cast long, angular shadows of the erect headstones, as if a dinner party of slender evening guests were socializing in the background. From the corner of my eye, the shadows swayed like curious spirits dancing the night away until the live people left.

like many gay men after a family Christmas, I decided to seek the comfort of strangers, only where could I find a comforting stranger on a freezing cold Christmas night in the middle of Northamptonshire? I pulled into a lay-by, hidden by woodland, expecting it, on this most holy night, to be deserted, but it wasn’t. A car was parked in the darkness, the engine turning over but with no lights on. I parked in front of it, a few yards ahead, and noticed in my rear-view mirror something stir within. The headlights flashed. A signal. I switched on my interior light and switched it off again. After a moment the car’s headlights came on and stayed on. A figure got out and came and stood in front, illuminated by the headlamps. It was a man, doing a dance, and he was completely naked apart from a bow of tinsel, which he had tied round his balls. Merry Christmas, I thought: Happy Feast of the Nativity.

Then, at the stroke of midnight, MacKenzie was crowned Sweetheart Princess and my fairy tale turned into a horror story. My gown and glass slippers turned back into my pj’s and bunny slippers. And my limo and chauffeur turned back into the Princess Sugar Plum Magical Flying Car (with real working headlights) and Baby Unicorn. OMG! I was SO embarrassed to be at the school dance in my pajamas with Brianna’s toys. Everyone

When Tina walks closer, as if smelling her scent––the creature's long neck juts up from lapping at Adam's ale. It has a face that is too wide for a human being's and its eyes are like perfectly round fish-eyes! Its gaze is so terrifying that Juniper arches her back instinctively, but is so scared that she is essentially paralyzed by its wide-eyed stare. Those empty crystalline eyes looking unwaveringly forward!   The creature that had once been perceivably angelic is now a walking horror show. Its nose is melded into its face, like a replica of the tender pink nose of a rabbit, and its lips are petite and taut. Drops of dew solidify on its mane, like a fleece of pearls. Juniper feels warm liquid running down her leg. This is the first time, since her dance with near-death, during her early childhood––that she has felt true fear. It looks straight at her, unblinking, like a deer in headlights would. But––the look isn't comparable to the livelihood of a stag or deer or anything resembling an animal or human! The vacant stare is beyond stomach churning. Even when the daylight's reflection on the water casts a shimmer upon its face: the eyes are endlessly deep and abyssal. Feeling as though they completely consume whoever they cast a glance upon. Consuming all of a person's essence, in a single gaze!

I wish I could tell you I woke up slowly each morning. That I made myself breakfast, reciting intentions of clemency over the stove and kettle. I wish I could tell you the bitter peel dried and only sweet fruit remains, and that grown-up men on the train—with noses and mouths like yours—don’t noiselessly urge me to rend these garments of flesh for pound after pound of offering in cathedrals of salt. But, I cannot; for beneath burning, smokeless blades, my bones falter beneath me. The latticework corrodes. The vines wither and unravel. A golem of a woman sculpted from crimson clay and held together, not by magic, but by dreams, like knives in its joints, facing that tireless choir of headlights that defy the night. For now, all that remains of me is stained lace on charred earth, wind-stirred to dolorous dance while our purgatory duet carves your name into each vein. I rise again and again, and you do not.

You want to dance with me?” “Now? Here?” “Sun’s almost gone. In my book it couldn't get more perfect, throwing back a vanilla root beer while I dance in the glow of my headlights with you.” “After all this time, now you want to dance with me?” “Do I have to let you go after?” “No, you don’t have to let me go.” “Then yes, after all this time, I can finally dance with you.

Wait. Your mom is Victoria Lane!?” Lucky asked. Holy shit! That’s where he knew her from. That’s why her lips looked so familiar. That’s why he’d felt like he’d looked into her eyes before. He had. “Yep.” “You were in a perfume or clothing ad with her when you were a teenager!” Lucky had ripped out every ad he’d found in magazines his senior year. He’d never particularly thought that Victoria was that hot, but when he’d seen her daughter beside her, Lucky had been one smitten kitten. In fact, Deanna had been his first and only crush. He just hadn’t known it was her. Deanna didn’t share his enthusiasm. “Yeah, I was.” “I knew you looked familiar. God, I was obsessed with you. I stole every ad I could find and I would fold it in half and pin it up on my wall so only you were showing.” Her head spun around, and she looked…mad. “No, you didn’t.” Oh well. He wasn’t about to try to dig himself out of this one. His only move was to dig in deeper. “Yes. I did. I thought you were so damn hot—” Her hand rose defensively. “Lucky, stop. I know that’s not true—” “You don’t know shit,” he snapped back, still feeling the adrenaline from earlier. His tone made him cringe, so he softened his voice. “Sorry, but you don’t.” “Whatever.” She crossed her arms in front of her. Lucky saw it for what it was: a protective stance. But he’d be damned if she was going to feel she had to protect herself from him. He would never hurt her. “Look, I’m sorry if it pisses you off that I had hundreds of pictures of you all over my wall and I used to jack it to you morning and night—” “What!?” she screeched. Glancing over, he saw the horror in her beautiful expressive eyes, but her lips were curled a little at the edges and not set in a grim expression. So he hadn’t pissed her off that bad by his oh-so-shocking admission. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but I don’t think there was a red-blooded teenage boy who wasn’t jerking it to those pictures.” He’d said it to lighten the mood, but he was getting the same feeling he’d gotten when he’d seen Casey heading towards Deanna on the dance floor. One word filled his mind. Mine. Deanna let out a harsh laugh. “Yeah, maybe, but it wasn’t me they were looking at.” Lucky took his eyes off the road just long enough to see in the set of her jaw and her protective body language that she wasn’t joking. She really believed that she wasn’t hot. Or beautiful. And her mom was. Then it hit him. She’d grown up the daughter of a supermodel and a professional baseball player. Maybe living in the shadows all of those years had caused her not to see herself for who she really was. It was time to shed some light on that subject. Instead of arguing with her, Lucky decided to enlighten her. “My favorite was the one with you wearing a white tank top and jeans. Just a tiny sliver of your stomach was showing, and I used to imagine running my finger along that area and how soft your skin would feel. I loved how that one piece of your hair fell over your shoulder. Your eyes were looking right in the camera, and your lips were so full and… I won’t even tell you what I pictured you doing with them.” Deanna sounded breathless as she said, “Oh.” “Do you believe me now?” he asked as he kept his eyes on the winding, dark highway illuminated only by his headlights. “Yes,” she said quietly. Then he felt her turn towards him, and her voice sounded lighter and hell of a lot sassier as she asked, “You know I was only thirteen when I shot that, right?” “You were what!?” Lucky’s voice rose in shock, and it took everything in his power not to swerve the truck into the other lane. Now, he was the one who didn’t believe her. “No way. There is no way you were thirteen!” “Yep. I really was. Whatever you were picturing me doi—” “Stop!” If Lucky could’ve, he would have covered his ears and said, “Na-na-na-na-na! I’m not listening to you.

Dust particles danced in their headlights as they passed, an industrial haze illuminated in the beams against a darkened backdrop, the city's background taint.

How can dreams be secondhand?" Lissie asked, sounding both skeptical and intrigued. Addie flipped on the headlights, watched the snowflakes dancing in the beams. "Sometimes people give up on them, because they don't fit anymore. Or they just leave them behind, for one reason or another. Then someone else comes along, finds them, and believes they might be worth something after all.

Julie started the engine, and the air around the BSA danced to life, this time enclosing them in a roaring privacy - a momentary country, trembling at the curb. Outside, beyond their borders, the honey-slow twilight was thinning and quickening to a cold, dusty lavender. Skateboarders hurtled past like moths, urgently contorted, one-dimensional in the pale headlights rushing up the hill toward them.

Seven years ago tonight, every dream I ever had came true. That's not something too many men get to claim. I'm very lucky, blessed, whichever you believe. Probably a lot of both. Tonight marks the anniversary of my debut performance at Ceasars Palace." On his cue, the crowd whipped into congratulary rapture. Blindsided by his recollection, Isavel was motionless. That's what he recalls happening on this date? "Indulgent, lazy, self-centered... jerk!" she said, grabbing her purse, thinking she'd climb over the seat. "I'm going home!" Before she could turn, hositing herself over, a spotlight landed on her. In the darkened arena Aidan and Isabel were face-to-face. He stared. The same way he did years ago in his pickup truck, holding tight to her wrist, the same way he did on the dance floor at the gala. The same way he did in the moment she left him. "If you can believe it," he said, still staring, "something even more important happened that day. As dreams of fame and fortune go, this topped everything. I've always know that." Then, in a softer voice: "And I'm a fool because I should have never given up." Even from her vantage point, Isabel could see the gulp roll through his throat. "It's my great privilege this evening to introduce my wife, Isabel Royce." He gestered to the box. Isabel responded by sinking to her seat. "What's he talking about?" she hissed to Mary Louise. "We're divorced!" From her right, Tanya nudged her. It was like being on a palace balcony, Isabel offering a deer-in-the-headlights wave to the subjects, a thoroughly baffled look at Aidan. In return, he smiled at her clear confusion. "My wife ..." Why is he calling me that? There was a mixed reaction, lots of gasps, some applause, and the disappointed groans from female fans. "She's done me the tremendous honor of making a rare appearance at one of my shows. Seven years ago, she agreed to marry me. At the time, my life was more trouble than promise. We were two scared kids who had nothing but each other. Really, it was all I needed. We were married in true Vegas fashion." Hoots and hollers echoed, his glance dropping to the stage floor. Sharing this was making the performer uncomfortable. He pushed on. "While most women would have been satisfied with a ring ... " His long fingers fluttered over the snake. "This was Isabel's idea of a permanent bond." It drew a wave of subtle laughter, Isabel included. "Do you remember how the story went?" he said, speaking only to Isabel in a crowd of thousands. "As long as I had it, I'd never be without you. Turns out, it wasn't a story, it was the absolute truth. Lately though," he said, turning back to his public narrative, "circumstance, some serious, some calculated, has prevented me from getting my wife's attention. So tonight I resorted to an old performer's trick, a captive audience. I planned this moment, Isabel, knowing you'd be here. Regardless of anything you may believe, I meant what I said on our wedding night, in the moment I said it. I love you. I always have.