The Dance
She is a golden whirlwind when she dances. Her hair, her eyes, her dress-all of it is glowing in the lights of thousands candles. Exactly 3569 to be precise, excluded those that have gone out by now, above on the chandeliers – I know, I've counted them. Unusual to use candles as lighting, but then there are the lamps. I don't know how many there are, I couldn't. The moment she stepped on the dance floor, I stopped counting. Candlelight is special as it is rare, but seeing her dancing is even rarer. It appeared illogical to me, to waste my time on the lighting – I would not miss the chance to analyse her. The dress is silk, a light and soft material, its shade blurring from various shades of green to gold, depending on the angle the light hits it - the light changes a lot; she won't stand still. It is a wrap-around dress, sleeveless showing just the right amount of golden skin – it is not really golden, it's slightly tanned but it's reflecting the light creating a halo around her. She has a scarf, using it like a belt and though I would not recommend this kind of misuse of clothing, it seems properly on her. The scarf entangles her waist; it glisters as she whirls in circles. She loves glistering things, I sometimes wonder why I am the only one to notice, but then again, no one is observing their surroundings as accurate as me. Perhaps I do it too accurate, that's what they told me, including her. But she doesn't mind, she says it's part of what I am, a part of my unique personality. It is not right to change personalities, she said it and now by watching her every movement, I realize that she's the only one to say a thing like that. They appreciate me, how else, as I am most efficient in all I do. But they avoid me when it comes to personal matters – and sometimes it is me avoiding them. I have no interest in all the things they're doing, in all but her – her actions make sense, she wouldn't waste her time as frequently as others. I watch her dancing – no, not dancing, flying. She flies, I can tell it; her mind is somewhere else, far away, not in this hall. Perhaps not even on this planet, somewhere between the stars. She loves the stars, as do I. They are closest to eternity, they are stable, predictable and jet they are fascinating. I imagine her, floating amidst the stars, herself a sun glowing with live-giving light. I can't fight imagining it. My eyes rest on her face, she looks at the chandelier above her, not sensing my look. The halo makes her look like an angle, this divine being humans used to believe in. It is irrational I know, but now I truly see that she can be compared to an angles or a saint. Except that she is no saint. She is perfection. Her lips curl into a smile but I can't see it as she spins around her hair swinging after her like a wake after a shooting star. I marvel at its softness, I know it'll be soft; I catch myself wishing to touch it. I wince, not visibly –I should not allow myself to think of it. What would she say if those amber eyes of hers would meat my own? What would she think of me, knowing that my eyes follow her every movement? I do not know, she is unpredictable in her reactions… My eyes keep following her. She spins, she's happy; she always is when she dances like this. It is not the dance that causes her happiness; it is the happiness that makes her dance. And knowing this makes me happy. Feeling is something I don't do. I've never allowed myself to show emotions, not even to have them. Since childhood I would not let them interfere with my actions. Most people say I am cold, heartless as they call it, they do not like me for that reason – not that I care what strangers think of me. The doctor says I have emotions, but I have built a wall to protect my inner core, not letting anyone in. He loves idioms he uses them to try and annoy me, of course he doesn't succeed. I suppose we could call each other friends if not for this wall. It is just a phrase, I know, but it describes it well. She says she doesn't mind, I hide my feelings well but not from her, I can't. She can always tell what is going on inside my head. A single look from her and I can feel the wall shattering, her smile makes light fall through the cracks. She stopped spinning, her dress still moving in the momentum. I can see her smile, how much I cherish it. It is her own, her personal smile, so warm it could melt a glacier. Those can call themselves lucky, to whom she gives that smile. Her eyes move over the crowd, for a second they seem to linger on me – a beam, my lips twitching into a smile – but then her gaze moves on, she has not seen me. Her smile widens, she has seen somebody she waves her hand. I follow her look, I want to know to whom she's calling, it is too far, I cannot hear. A man steps to her, he smiles, he says something. He wraps his arm around her waist – she smiles – and leads her away. I count the lamps.