literature

La Belle Danse

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commonstrosity's avatar
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Literature Text

I can't dance with you any longer, love. I've learned a million dances and ten million steps for you, but what good are hours and years of practice after long practice, when you are faint, and beginning to fade?

My feet are long numb, and my ankles are bruised, throbbing from one too many falls I've endured to make myself perfect for you – I never succeeded. My minuet is far too choppy to pass for la belle dance – and my baroque is tired and listless, the smiling Comedy mask long-since faded to the groans of the Tragedy mask. Will I always be forced to mask myself, love?

The music that cues me will not let me alone. It echoes about these four walls, and I respond to it automatically. I will always try to be as perfect as possible for you, love. You seem to glide across the floor effortlessly, following impossibly complicated matrices of steps and slides as if they are no more than child's play to you, a simple four-step dance to a lifelong dancer. Am I just child's play to you? Like a doll, you pick me up then let me go forgotten, moving on to the next. But I most be your favorite doll, because you always come back to pick me up again – it makes it hurt that much worse when you drop me once more.

The beat picks up, and the music pays no attention to my silent pleas for digression. I defer to the commanding rhythm, and my feet painfully come back to life. Then I feel your arm on mine, resting lightly, teasingly, just above my wrist. As if rehearsed under hours of long practice, we twirl and spin, coming hairs away from colliding and stepping on each other, but we never do. We are the perfect act, entrancing, entranced in the music. We'll never get lost in the costumes, the lights, the crowd.

One of your hands moves from my arm to my waist, and I finally raise my gaze from our connected arms, to your eyes, and in that gaze, I am lost. I no longer belong to the music. The music can not force me to move any longer, but you can. I belong to you now, once more. I smile a love-lost smile, and your eyes dance behind their amber hood, grinning at me, daring me to make a move as well. I lead your arm to the back of my neck, and then mirror that same embrace, my hand on your waist now, too. We are a mirror-image, love – symmetrical and perfect, always-the-same and never changing. You lean into the embrace for a moment, and then you are gone.

I dare not stop the dance, as the music begins to peak, but I spin to face the direction your hands traveled as they roamed down me before leaving. You are there on the wall, watching me like your favorite show, with a cool glass of water. I wonder if I have been dancing for you the whole time. How many hours had I practiced this for you, never suspecting a thing when you appeared out of nowhere to sweep my arms out and alive, and set my skin afire once more? Then I see the piles of perfect crystal glasses, and I understand.

While I have been dancing over and over, you have taken it as your hobby to watch me in luxury. My dry throat burns as I watch you. I have never taken a break. You run on the schedule of the program, while I run as the television. You may take a breather at each commercial, but my activity is never rested. I am not your favorite doll, but your television, to be turned off and on at will, but always sucking power. Do not leave me here, love, and walk out in the crystal grip of too-perfect, and easily shattered glasses. Do not make me debut alone…the door closes. The music pauses, a jarring stop.

The room I am in turns to a stage, and the far wall opens like a curtain, revealing a spotlight that instantly impairs my ability to look for you among this crowd of millions. I let out a soon-to-be repetitively released groan as the music starts from the beginning. I am being watched like the television, but this time, I do not know if you are in the audience or not. I can only hope that you will step in again to meet me, and that this time, you will stay with me. I am one of billions, and there are televisions far grander than I. I must hold strong in the belief that you really do love me, and will not cast me aside for good, and another better. Dance with me, love. Dance with me.

I will dance with you forever, love. I've learned a million dances and ten million steps for you, and these hours and years of practice will not break me. I'll never fade, and if I faint, I will stand back up, strong again. You've got me, love. Don't leave me waiting too long.

The music continues.
Written a few days ago. What yall think about the title? It means 'the beautiful dance' in french.
© 2010 - 2024 commonstrosity
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de6789's avatar
this is wonderful. it makes me feel tired and achey but also alive and excited. it's very sad. to me it seemed the character is mourning the slow death of her own heart. tragic, but magical and lovely in it's imagery.

about the title....actually, in french it would be "la belle danse". or if you wanted to use the word "bella" (which is an italian word) it would be "la danza bella" in italian.

keep up the great work!!!!!!!