F3: She Dances
Just a throwaway piece this week, I’m afraid. I was hoping to write something better but I’ve been busy elsewhere: my PC now has a shiny new motherboard and PSU, I have another book review almost ready to post, and I’ve been planning my novel for NaNoWriMo. Well, I say “planning”, but I really mean “drawing spider diagrams and daydreaming of being fed grapes and wine by my naked publishing harem.”
Mmm. Publishing harem. Naked.
Have a little story:
She dances like something divine. Metaphor and simile are insufficient to describe her movements: they are something primal. When she begins to dance, every other person in the room falls from your focus. Soon enough they stop moving anyway; hands fall from partners, eyes turn to her.
No one notices that everyone else has stopped. Their eyes are only for her. They drink her in, greedily, needily. It’s a sexual experience, but a passive one. It’s the rhythm of the human form, an ultimate of voyeuristic experience. No one makes a move toward her. They’re all mesmerised, like rabbits entranced by the dance of a stoat.
The predatory metaphor is, perhaps, more appropriate than those previously selected and rejected.
The dancer’s new audience don’t even notice as the shadows of the dance hall deepen and stretch. They don’t notice when the dimensions of the room become wrong. And they don’t notice as silent ushers walk out from these wrong spaces, take their partners by the hand, and lead them away. They don’t even notice when they too are taken away. They just look back over their shoulders, absorbing those final images of her swaying figure.
The devil’s in her when she dances, this one.