The dancer is breathtaking—spiraling from one pirouette to the next, into more moves with names Idon’t know. Her face is alert, focused, yet gentle. Every movement is so graceful it almost doesn’tseem human. It seems to belong to the Tchaikovsky notes she’s following, almost like her slight curvesare the ones conducting the music.
This dancer, whoever she is, is the first person I could actually say “when she moves, time stops,”and not feel like a complete and total tool in doing so.
After she’s finished, she turns off the music and aims a significant look at me. Another bell ofrealization chimes in my head.
Dear God, no. Dancing and me are not friends. Not friends at all.
“Welcome,” she says in a low, resonant voice with the slightest hint of an accent.
“We were held
