Last Dance A little foundation, a touch of rouge, and as much as I hate it, the bright red lipstick. It’s so slutty, I almost can’t stand it, but it never fails to get a man’s attention. Neither does the low-cut, bright red dress with the subtle embroidered heart design. I spin in the mirror, watching the knee-length skirt fan out, the black lace of my petticoat hiding the biking shorts I wear beneath. I’ve been paranoid about going splat on the ground in a skirt since I was a child, and all the more so since I’m wearing my 3-inch dance shoes tonight; I rarely wear heels for work. I tug a few mahogany curls loose from my high bun, give myself a final once-over, then hurry out to the cab that just honked for me. The swing club is across town, in an area I’m only marginally familiar with, and my heart is pounding. I love to dance, but I don’t know anyone here, and I’m not sure what to expect. Some guys know how to lead, and their experience can make even a novice look like she’s