Counts of Eight
This woman wishes to own me, to do me harm, for what reason, I still don’t know. But the sight of her talent in motion gives me goosebumps, makes my heart thump and my thigh muscles twitch to be in motion with her on the dance floor.
A dancer always dances.
The song comes to an end and so does her movement. Her eyes immediately lock onto mine and again comes the glacier from the icy blue, scraping slowly but steadily across the space between us.
She strides across the floor toward me with all the poise of a dancer exiting the stage after a performance.
She sighs. “I wasn’t expecting you today. You’ve interrupted my rehearsal.”
“I hate to break it to you, princess, but this has interrupted my whole life. So why don’t we just cut ties now and get out of each other’s hair?”
“No one leaves once they’re brought here.” Her eyes shift away, then back to pierce mine again.
I let my tired head fall over onto my arm. “Please spare me the cryptic bull crap. What am I doing here?”
“You’re here to dance.”
“I require a partner for our annual performance. My last didn’t live up to my master’s expectations…” She steps closer, invading my personal space. “That partner is gone now, and you are here to replace him.”
“Yes, that’s what I said. Why do you keep repeating me? My English is excellent, can you not understand me through my accent? I lived in New York since I was eleven. Perhaps I’ve developed another accent that you have trouble understanding.” She tilts her head as her words drip with sarcasm.
The side of my mouth curls up. I might have found her interesting if it weren’t for the circumstances.