FICTION
Dance Lesson
by Anna Kashina
You come out of the darkness.
You step into the bright circle of the street light five minutes before the appointed time, bringing along a delicate musk scent. You are dressed in black. Your movements are sparing and precise in their graceful ease.
I wait for you in the bright circle of the street light. As your black figure takes shape against the surrounding darkness, my heart pounds like a bird clutched in a hand. And, like a bird set free, my heart soars up into the sky when I catch a glimmer of a smile in the shifting shadows of your impassive face.
You help me into your raven-black car and drive me through the dark streets. We stop in front of a small door in a plain concrete wall.
Inside, in the semi-darkness of the long hallway, the doorman receives my coat, leaving my bare shoulders and the rustling silk of my dress unprotected from the chills of the drafty old building. I try in vain to catch your gaze on my shoulders and breasts, quivering beneath the light silk. But I fail. Your eyes slide with friendly impassiveness over the smooth knot of my hair and stop at my face, as you say politely:
"You look wonderful today."
I blush, waiting for these words and yet feeling like a schoolgirl who was complimented for the first time in her life.
The large hall is awash with suffused lights that reflect in the polished wooden floor and in the mirrors of the wall. I am startled by our reflection, as if I have never before seen us together. Your elegant black figure, so breathtaking in its calm, easy grace. And me, in my wide ballroom dress flowing with glimmering folds of silk. I look so tense in my outward glamour. I try to relax, to become a match for your graceful ease, and feel like an ugly weed next to a beautiful tree.
Then you turn toward me and none of it matters anymore. I straighten up and lift my arm onto your shoulder, feeling the firmness of your hand upon my bare back. Your body draws me into the flowing waves of music. Nothing exists for me except the music and you, your movements leading me into the dance, our bodies moving as one.
I feel your delicate musk scent and another, breathtakingly sensuous smell of your skin, so close to my face. Your breath smells of mint and lavender, and tiny beads of sweat glisten on your cheek. At this moment you seem almost mortal. You are closer to me than ever. But even that is not important compared to our dance. It draws me like wind into its flow. I soar up toward the sky, like a bird set free.
Your voice whispers into my ear, your hands guide me like the hands of an artist, they sculpt me, creating me anew and endlessly perfecting their own creation. I turn from an ugly weed into a beautiful flower, floating in the cradle of your bent arm, as if in our dance we really can become one, a part of the same flight, the same movement, the same will...
And then everything disappears. The music stops. The lights begin to fade, and the flying folds of my silk dress fall limply about me. Your hand leaves my back, leaving me to find my own balance in the sudden emptiness.
Again I become too naked and unprotected, the mirrors reflecting my sagging shape beside yours, light and graceful as ever. I lean upon your arm and you, ever a gentleman, lead me to the hallway. The doorman offers me my coat, enclosing me once again in its heavy protective folds. You put on your long black coat and your raven-black car takes us along the dark lifeless streets. Back.
Back to my normal life, so different from these enchanting evenings. Back to my everyday duties that lack any feeling of flight and magic. Back to the world of the ordinary people, who can allow themselves to dress sloppily, to be late for a meeting, to mumble something unclear in response to my greeting.
Perhaps you also have such an everyday life somewhere. A life in which you dress in white, or heaven forbid in flowery shirts and baggy shorts. A life in which you are late for meetings, utter rude jokes, and mumble something unclear in response to a smile from an unknown lady. Perhaps, away from our enchanting evenings you lead the same ordinary life as everyone else, life without flight and magic.
I don't want to know.
To me you will always be the walking elegance and grace, a creature of darkness, flight, and music, a mysterious being that brings to mere mortals their most beautiful moments.
We part under the street light. You give me a fleeting smile and disappear into the darkness, merging with the shadows and leaving behind a delicate musk scent.
I stand in the street light and watch you go.
Anna Kashina was born in Russia and moved to the United States in 1994. She is the published author of the The Princess of Dhagabad — an Arabian-style fantasy novel. She also has two published books in Russia, In the Name of the Queen under the pen name Anne Porridge, and a book of fantasy short stories. Her fantasy novel is coming out in Germany in 2007. She divides her time between writing and scientific research — her two lifetime passions.
Copyright 2006, Anna Kashina