The Dance

She did not imagine the dance would be this painful. She winces. She steps on his feet again and again. She desperately wants to run away, to leave this floor and retreat back to a corner alone in a chair hoping perhaps no one will remember that she tried. She cannot for there are ropes that now bind her to him even when his own arms refuse.

She wishes her shoes were less pointy, or that perhaps he would actually wince again rather than accepting the abuse her missteps inflict with such stoicism. Her eyes are on his chest, his feet, her own. She does not dare to glance at his face, to seek his eyes. She fears loathing. She fears anger, or hurt. Worse, she fears seeing indifference. Oh the terror of seeing that he merely stares blankly at the walls, his mind somewhere far beyond her reach. Different shoes would help, she obsesses. Or perhaps if she could bring herself to fling her shoes off. Oh, but the humility of dancing with bare feet here and admitting her defeat before all. In frustration she pulls against the ropes. He lets her, indifferent that this too causes him pain and so needlessly for it is of no use.

She wants him to help her, though she also does not want to need his help. She wants him to forgive her, though she would not admit to him that she needs it. She wanted to dance well and to do so without being taught and without learning.

He wants her to stop stepping on his feet, though they are numb. He wants her to admit her defeat and kick off her shoes. He wants to help her but a part of him likes her failures, not because she is human, but rather because they allow him to pretend he is not. He wants to help her but he knows that would require knowing the dance himself well enough to teach and he does not. He merely has enough grace not to crush her feet, though even this effort distorts his form. To admit this to her might allow them to share in defeat and thus to be bound by more than ropes. Yet, he cannot yet muster this. He wonders about this as he stares at the walls.

Smiling women whisper as they dance past, "Don't fret, it is hard at first, but there will comes a time you won't even notice the ropes." She cannot fathom this. They must lie. She will always feel its burn. Yet her eyes close and she hopes they speak truly.

"There is no shame in losing the shoes while you learn," whispers another. "Did you?" she wonders, but dares not ask for either answer condemns her.

"He would still hold you even if there were no ropes," promises another with perhaps more intuition than the others. "Would he?! Would he...." her thoughts press her and beg her eyes to his face but she still cannot look.

"You will have to lose the shoes and learn his face or you will dance like that forever," exhorts another. She believes it terrified but still cannot decide which is worse, to gain the knowledge through humility, or to limp through a pain now familiar and hope grace comes on its own.

So they dance on, and she holds back tears, for she did not imagine the dance could be this painful.