The Dance

Dances can occur on many levels...

As the last strains of music sounded in the air, she twirled to a stop, letting the passion of the flamenco release her.  As the last beat of the music sounded, she defiantly tossed her head back, neck arched proudly, nose tilted almost arrogantly in the air.  She put her left hand in front of her face as if to throw the audience - or perhaps her partner - a kiss.  Instead, she threw that arm into the air, elegant fingers on display for the world. The graceful curve of her arm accentuated the look of a proud swan showing off for its less beautiful audience - ugly ducklings.  At this moment, no one could compare to her.  This was as close to a bow as she ever got - the only thank you she would give the audience.  She bowed to no one - nothing.

     She gracefully left the floor in her partner's arms, a graceful pose.  The dance was not over.  It would not be over until she reached her seat.  She walked gracefully, carefully, the picture of a woman confident in her own skin.  No one would ever guess the pain that plaqued her graceful, beautiful body.  She was the picture of elegant poise.  She gave the audience the benefit of seeing her curves in motion one last time as her hips gently swayed.  Perfection. Poetry. She was poetry in motion - the most delicate and beautiful of haikus. 

     He was waiting for her at the table.  A passo doble had begun to play.  His eyes flashed dangerously as she slid into her chair.  He remained standing, towering over her.  She wasn't cowed and didn't pretend to be.  Her face registered resignation and an eerie calm as she reached for her glass.  She sipped water as he began. 

     "And just what," he asked, venom dripping from each carefully articulated word, "do you think you were doing?"  She gazed at him over the top of the glass, remaining quiet.  She knew what was coming.  She had known even before she decided to step onto the floor.  "Do you know how close you came to dying the other day?" he demanded.  Still, she said nothing.  "I worked feverishly to save your life when you thought surely you'd die.  And you almost did."  Here, he paused to look over her, his eyes registering the simple black rubber bracelet she wore on her left wrist.  On anyone else, it would look garish and out of place, especially at such an event as this.  On her, it was perfect.  In fact, it completed her.  She would be naked without that little bracelet, which she had worn every day for almost two years.  It was the only visible reminder of how close she had come to dying those two years ago, when he had met her.  He convinced her to live then.  He had saved her life, as he had several times since then.

     He sighed, realizing he was on the verge of making a scene.  He was her doctor, not her lover.  What right had he to yell at her?  Every right, a voice answered in his head.  He was her doctor.  As long as he stayed on subject, letting this rant stem from his concern for her health and well-being, he had every right.  It had nothing at all to do with seeing her in the lithe young dancer's athletic arms, dancing as if they were the only two in the world.  It had nothing at all to do with the maddening way they had moved together, as if they were one.  No. Not in the least.  Seeing her hips move with the dancer's, rotating and moving in perfect harmony, as if they were making love, had not at all affected him.  Seeing her there, the very essence of beauty, gliding about on the floor, telling a story with her body was nothing. It had no effect on him.  What he had witnessed was dance as it was meant to be, no doubts about that.  It certainly did not bother him that it had been with an enthusiastic youth whose body bore no mark of age.

     Narrowing his eyes almost imperceptibly, he continued. Eyes on her bracelet, he said, "Or is that what you wanted? To die?"  From the light that flashed in her eyes dangerously, he saw that he had cut a bit too deeply.  "Die?" she repeatedly coolly.  "How long do you expect me to wait?" she asked.  Drawing a breath, she continued before he could answer.  "Am I supposed to wait forever?  How long will it be before I am allowed to live? Or will I die waiting? Will I die before I have ever lived?"  Tears welled in her eyes, but she would not allow them to fall.  She closed her eyes for a moment, composing herself.

     Determinedly, she opened her eyes and focused on his face.  "I just wanted to remember," she said quietly, "I just wanted to remember the dance.  I wanted to remember what it was like to not only be beautiful, but to create beauty."  She sighed, her delicate fingers resting against the side of her long forgotten glass.  "I wanted to tell a story.  I wanted to dance."  She paused and then said, "I wanted to live."  Whether they wanted to or not, they had created a scene.  All eyes were on them.  The music played on, but there was no one to bring life to the notes.  Music was given life in the dance.  Even the dancers stood still, watching doctor and patient quarrel.  They watched a dance of a different kind - the dance of emotions held obdurately in check.

   As gracious as ever, she slowly rose from her seat.  She tilted her head proudly, almost imperiously.  "I just wanted to live," she repeated in a quiet, resigned voice.  She swept off towards the ladies' room, a flurry of creamy white fabric.  She would give vent to her rage there.  However, it was absolutely imperative that no one, especially the doctor, see tears trace a path along her smooth cheek.

   Watching her go, the doctor plucked a champagne flute from a passing waiter, asked for something stronger, and sank into the recently vacated seat.  It was pointless to admit even to himself that he had lied.  It was even more pointless to admit that he was a fool.  He would wait, and then he would rectify the situation.  He would begin with the truth - the simple, unadulterated truth.  That was always best.   As the dancers  began once more to give life to the music,  he sipped the champagne and waited.

Author's Note

I thought this one was complete, but several friends have demanded more. I am not sure whether I will continue this. After all, my intention was to tell the story and have readers draw their own conclusions. I wanted this to imitate life in that life does not always wrap everything up in a neat package and resolve everything. I wanted a snapshot painted and colored with words.

Reviews

[Xienna]

I love the beautiful imagery, it makes it seem as if the dancer has magic in her every step and twirl. The story is alive, and the fact that there are no names in the story allows us to make our own conclusions without using the names as a basis for the character we see. And, I'm a fantasy lover, so i can take this as a story of mythical creatures and magicians :)
However, like your friends, I tend to like complete stories, so if you decide to continue it, just click on my name and drop me a note!