Dancing pt. 1

Heavily inspired by Streets Fell Into My Window – The Red Paintings

For Dancing pt. 2, click here.

She sways, she dances, her graceful hips follow the movement of her lithe hands, as if she had no other care in the world.

The smile on her face dictates the mood of the empty room. I peek through the little crack in the door, curiosity getting the better of me. The music fills the atmosphere, as if the stale air had disappeared with her appearance.

I watch, with the inquisitive personality that overwhelms me, and I memorize every single step that she takes. Time seems slow when she dances, an unnatural phenomenon, yet at the same time it feels so… Natural. My childish nature still yet cannot comprehend this occurrence, however, I know that I must keep on watching. So I watch.

 

 

The heavy door stands guard in front of me. It is black, iron cast, mostly; you don’t have to touch it to know the weight of the two metal slabs, it’s just fairly obvious. The door is a plain black, cut down through the middle to open it, while metal halves of a sphere litter in a horizontal line across the two pieces of the door. The door is intimidating, and it towers over me, as if it reigns authority.

Well, by this point, perhaps it does reign some kind of authority. An authority that I no longer have in my hands.

 

She laughs, and I hold wonder in the tinkling sounds behind her voice. She sounds so beautiful when she laughs, perhaps as beautiful as her dancing. The beauty of her laughter is multiplied tenfold when I know that I am the source of her laughter.

From here, I can only admire her from below. I find her to be light and free, smiling and with a never-ending source of cheerfulness. All the traits in which I admire and adore in a woman.

Our parents say that I shouldn’t bother her so much, but she looks as if she doesn’t mind at all. In fact, I think she wants to play and converse with me as well, I think she needs my company as much as I need hers.

 

 

I look out the window as it is a glorious morning, yet it is not beautiful because she is not by my side right now. She just isn’t by my side, and my heart breaks just a bit more as I remember that.

My strong hands grip the windowsill as the sun-rays deflect off my tanned chest. My breath curls up against the glass and it becomes a misty fog, covering my view out towards the city.

I can consciously feel the missing space beside me, I can feel my need to fill it rising up. I need her company more than the air around me.

 

 

I question myself as I stare at the door. Is this really the door that I have been looking forward to for so long? The very oddity of the door in this everlasting darkness gives it no other reason to say otherwise.

 

 

I make her promise that I would marry her when I grow up. She laughs at the statement, and I smile. But somehow, I feel as if that it is more of a mockery and I do not feel the warm feeling gathering at the wells of my heart.

I feel as if she is not taking me seriously at all, while I am completely serious when I utter the sentence. She promises, though, and I know that she never breaks her promises.

 

 

I need her so much that I would be willing to give up my life, for just a short glimpse of her dancing.

I sigh and look out the window once more. Then, it starts.

 

 

To allow my hands to roam her body would be a delicious feeling, this is what I think. I have the desire for my fingers to slowly slide over her skin sensually, for my kisses to gently cover her as if a blanket, and for my lustful gaze to gradually devour her into my heart.

But I know that it will not happen, not soon. She still sees me as a child, one of little understanding about the world. She regards me in a joking manner, but I don’t see that as true mockery; no, instead I am attracted by this jeering attitude.

I adore her, above anyone else, but I know this cannot be. She does not love me back, but despite all odds: I do not care, for I am fine as long as she is beside me.

 

 

The ground below my feet quakes, and I am caught off-guard. The first thing that I clutch are the curtains, the ones with the patterns which she loves so greatly.

The world around me revolves, the room spins and spins; similar to that of her dance routine, the one that I know off by memory. But for once, the movement is not beautiful, but frightening. The sounds of crashing furniture is gruesome, unlike that of her laughter, which I can so clearly hear in the back of my head.

 

 

I take a step forward towards the ominous door. My breath once again curls in front of me, alike that of a fetus, as if it had no care in the world. My step is hesitant, though, surprising even myself.

The question rings in my head, inquiring if I really am devoted enough to her to step forward, to push the metal slabs; to think.

 

 

I watch her dance and twirl, twirl and dance. Even after all these years from the first time I’ve watched her dance, her flexible and airy movements still had not changed. They still retain the wonder and the stories that she brings to life with her steps.

I feel honored to be her audience, for her to care enough about me that she would allow me to watch her. Perhaps, it was to be expected, considering our relationship, but I am honored nonetheless.

During her dance, she smiles at me. My heart reacts, my desire rises, but I control it. She will shun me for the rest of my life if I were to allow it.

She finishes, and I give applause. She laughs and she curtsies.

 

 

The door taunts me, ridiculing me. Do I not have dignity, it asks, do I have the courage?

Then, I hear her voice, in the back of my mind. I hear her laughing.

 

 

When the tremors recede, I let myself stand upright once more, regaining control. The shattered window fragments lay all around me, some lay on me, but I drag myself to where the glass once stood.

 

 

I remember her dancing clearly in front of my eyes. Her soft steps were silent upon the wooden floor, but now, the clamor of footsteps on the wooden floor are a clear contrast with her fragile movements.

She’s not going to make it, they say, she’s not going to make it.

I cannot look at her now, I cannot look at the disfigurement without smearing her image in my head. She has to make it, I say, she has to.

The letter that she sent me a week ago is still in my hands, and I question why.

They stare at me with pitiful eyes, sorrowful eyes, and hollow gazes.

I’m sorry, they say, I’m sorry.

 

 

I see outside the frame to a big expanse of water. The waves curl like my breath, and the tides dance, just like her.

Just like her.

The rising tide towers over my small figure and the waters crash upon me with its accessories of cars and lamp-posts.

I see the streets fall into my window.

I close my eyes and allow myself to be taken by the shade of blue, while everything around me turns into a dark black.

 

 

Now I hesitate no longer as her voice lingers in my ears. The door no longer intimidates me, no longer frightens me.

My hands reach out towards the metal slabs.

I hallucinate her dance in front of me.

My muscles push the door inwards.

I remember her promise to me.

I know she’s waiting for me.

Now I see it.

It’s a doorway to my love.

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