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She smiles.
He glowers.
They dance.
It’s practiced and elegant, gentle and graceful,
but half of their bodies are turned away from the crowd.
They wave signals behind their backs.
She points a glare in his direction.
He flashes a middle finger.
They continue to dance.
The stage lights are harsh and hot against their skin.
But they cannot stop. Not now.
He dips her low, and she trusts that he won’t drop her,
solely because the people are watching them.
Their dance flows from their fingertips.
The audience gasps as a second dip holds for a moment,
telling a story of support and beauty through their eyes.
She leans in close to whisper "fuck you."
Rage bubbles in his irises.
Their dance resumes.
The rose in his mouth bites at his lips, thorns causing a single drop of blood to fall.
She watches it as they dance, focused on every step landing
in exactly the right spot, exactly the right angle.
He imagines the moment the crimson curtains will close, hiding them from view
as they sweat, grumble, glare.
Every moment is fluid, graceful, perfect.
No one will ruin this five minute routine they’ve mastered.
The audience is enraptured.
He wants to punch her whenever his hands brush against her body.
She specifically tailored her glittery dress to hide every scar.
Their dance cannot stop.
The red of her dress is blindingly bright in the lights.
Jessica Pan