A/N: Today's my Birthday! So be kind and review as a special gift to me! Please?!
It's the way she gets lost in the rhythm and beat of the music; the way her body curves and bends and flows together, creating art she herself can never see – only experience; The way she can forget everything. It's why she loves to dance.
She doesn't have to worry about eating carbs and calories, or if Coach will notice if she has the chocolate chip muffin instead of the carrot one. She doesn't have to think about keeping up the mega-bitch facade that she puts on around other people. She doesn't have to think about how she will always be second fiddle to Perfect Quinnie. She doesn't have to think about all the guys she's been with and how much she regrets most of them.
It's just her and the music and the way her body responds to it. There's no Sue Sylvester there – like there is when she's cheering – to take shots at her self-esteem. There's no Quinn, being seen as perfect even though she is far from it. There is no one but her.
-o-o-o-o-o-
She finishes her routine, coming to a stop. Her chest heaves; she smiles. (Because her lungs are on effing fire and her feet feel like they've been stepped on by a herd of elephants, but she totally just nailed that.)
"Fantastic, Santana," Erica, her dance instructor, tells her walking over to her and giving the Latina a high five. "A little more practice and you'll be hitting it that perfectly every time. I'll see you on Saturday."
Santana smiles wider, nodding and waving as she moves to the other side of the room and picks up her duffel bag. She pulls on her street clothes – a denim pencil skirt and loose zip-up hoodie – and grabs her water bottle, taking a hungry gulp. She walks out of the studio, waving to the secretary named Alice. She steps outside, the near-freezing air welcome on her sweaty skin.
-o-o-o-o-o-
It's the sense of accomplishment she feels when she knows she did well.
Please review! (Make my BDay the best ever!)
