So she dances
She would never know how often he actually watched her.
His small study window overlooking her big windowed flat backside and her garden, which she never even seemed to notice.
How often had he seen her come back from work, saw her close her door, sinking back against it in an utterly tired motion, then picking herself back up, stroking back her hair in a determined, stubborn way and walking around in her one-roomed home, already starting that dance, her own unique way of moving to a rhythm all her very own.
He would work some while she started making her dinner, ever alone. There never was somebody visiting her, which made him both sad and utterly relieved.
Sad, because she seemed lonely, and because it meant that no one noticed what an amazing woman she was.
And utterly relieved because no visitors also meant no men coming over, which meant she was free.
He sneaked glances, of course.
Of how she glided around in the kitchen-corner, spinning around to get something, jumping back to the hearth to keep the noodles from spilling over, or the meat from being burnt.
She did not even seem to notice that she was dancing with every step she took, which made it all the more intriguing to watch.
After dinner, she sometimes watched a movie, or she sat down doing some paperwork. That's when he started immersing himself in his work as well, for one or two hours, until she switched off her lights.
That was the time when he left everything just as it was that moment and switched off his own light, too
Sitting down on the sill of his opened window.
Watching.
She turned from the Music Player she had switched on, facing the window, lifting her face into the moonlight, swaying slightly, arms wound around her slight frame.
Even in that state, barely moving, her grace was undeniable. In nights of the full moon, when the sky was clear enough for the moonlight to cast shadows, hers seemed to quiver with delight, awaiting the moment she took off, a shadow more graceful than anything else beside the real deal.
As the music really started, her sways would become more pronounced, her arms loosening from each other and her sides, taking in the rhythm and the movements until she really started dancing.
Waltzes were her favorites, the slow, intoxicating movements as she danced her way around the garden, lithe on her bare feet, her knee-length nightgowns fluttering with every turn, every bend making it impossible for him to stop watching her.
She was intriguing when she was unaware of her dance.
She was a goddess when she made an effort.
And, like a goddess, she was out of his reach.
He watched her lifting her arms, and her face, her entire form being washed with silvery-blue light, while she sank down onto her knees.
Suddenly, as he saw the expression of sheer bliss on her face, he knew why there never was a man coming over.
She did not need a man as long as she had music.
Almost envious now he listened to the song playing – a haunting tune, drawing him in almost as much as her movements – until he noticed the gleam on her face.
The most complex smile he ever saw skitted across her face while her eyes spilled tears like sparkling crystals.
The song died out, leaving a sunken figure on the lawn and a brooding one perched on a too-small windowsill.
As she stood and returned to her room, he rose as well, sitting down at his table once more.
How desperately he wanted her to know he existed.
But how to start?
Then it hit him.
It was so obvious.
Picking out a note sheet and a pen, he wrote the count.
¾.
A waltz for the girl out of reach.
Music-made moonlight, gentle, swift movements captured in song, the sound of bare feet thumping on grass wet with midnight dew, of long hair whipping around in the wind and of light cloth flipping around lithe limbs frozen in tiny black signs on paper.
It took him months to accomplish it.
His greatest work yet.
A chance.
He slipped the invitation to the charity ball into her mailbox a fortnight after finishing the recording.
And watched her fretting over her wardrobe that night.
As these occasions go, it was quite boring - a lot of hollow speeches, hollow smiles.
He tried to stifle a yawn while talking to a few famous singers when he saw her.
Sliding through holes in the crowd, weaving in and out, never touching anyone, there and gone after a glance, even now dancing to her own beat.
She wore a gown in different layers of dark blue, the bodice and the main skirt a midnight-blue color with intricate silver embroidery. Layers of dark blue and silvery chiffon scraps tumbled down like a waterfall from her waist, a small train of iridescent chiffon trailing from her shoulder like fluttering wings.
She was unbelievably beautiful, and in that dress she still was a part of the starry sky she always danced beneath. A mixture between a star and a dream, calling out to him.
And like in a dream he went to her.
Meeting her next tothe dance floor, looking around in awe.
"May I have the honor of the next dance?"
Had he been in anything else but this dreamlike state, he would never have dared to ask.
And she stared at him with her big, silvery eyes, like she couldn't believe there was someone who noticed her.
And nodded.
"Wait right here."
Walking to the man managing the music he handed him the sample CD with her song.
Back at her side, her eyes taking him in carefully and a bit confused, he bowed, leading her onto the emptying floor, closing her in his arms just as the music started.
Swaying slightly.
Her eyes grew even bigger as she took in the music, the rhythm – her rhythm. He just smiled and like she did every evening, swayed a bit more, and a bit more, until he whisked her away in a dizzying dance.
Light shone down on them, and it took him a while to notice that the floor stayed empty but for themselves.
Looking down at Her Of The Starlit Eyes, looking upon him with wonder and – dare he think it? – fondness, he felt like all his dreams came true at once. She felt perfect in his arms, even better than he ever imagined it.
Soft and bending, yet strong and real.
What was there left to wish for?
He saw her starting to get lost in the music, her eyes fluttering close, her head falling back, her movements getting even lighter. Men started to notice her now, and suddenly he regretted having put her on display so openly in a clearly artistic atmosphere.
But he couldn't stop.
XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX
It was early morning when they left, after much talking. She seemed surprised as he told her that he was a composer, and a little frightened when she realized that he was actually quite famous.
But she stayed.
And she let him walk her home.
He feigned surprise as she showed him where she lived.
He knew he was going to make her conscious of it and he would lose his view of her dancing, but he pointed out his study window anyway.
"Seems like we are… kinda … neighbors. Would you… perhaps… join me for tea sometime?"
But her smile at the suggestion – god, her elated, beautiful, heart-wrenching smile! – made the loss worthwhile.
For it held a promise of things to come.