Category Archives: fiction

And she loved him. Without warning, or reason, creeping up and pouncing when she least expected, as love tends to do, unannounced, as if to say ‘I am here,’ knocking out the breath and resurfacing the fragile essence of the self that we resist in its unearthing and guard with a ferocious protectiveness.

It was not because his eyes had somehow captured the ocean, or the glitter of his energy that set him apart from the rest of the madding crowd, or that he possessed a mind that shone brighter than a dying star. It was none of these things. He was a dancer, like her, and was the most magnificent dancer she had ever seen. That was why she loved him.

She briefly met him once, early on in his career before he rocketed to stardom, when they were both auditioning for the same production. While she took a minor part and was grateful for it, he was cast in a leading role. If you could see him dance, you would know why she loved him, in spite herself. Perhaps you too would have loved him, if you did.

She used to watch him practicing back then, long after everyone had left. She would sneak into the back of the theater where they rehearsed and sink in the shadows of the furthest row. Sometimes, when the mood struck, and in the comfort of thinking that he was alone, he would play his own music. This was when the magic began. Whether it was Spanish songs, the symphonies of Astor Piazzolla, or Lou Reed, he always touted a personal cd or two that he would play for his own amusement. This was when the real show began, as he slipped in and out of different personalities and poses, freeing the resonances of his soul’s range of expression and moods that all artists are compelled to capture and reflect in their art.

They were brilliant, each and every one of the personalities he would momentarily adopt for his own pleasure’s sake, sometimes pretending to be a ballerina and break out in pirouettes and arabesques. She marveled at his versatility to slip in and out of character. On occasion he would dance the most melancholy of dances, as if he were summoning the centuries of the suffering of his people, moving heavily, rising and falling, almost enacting the diaspora itself. Occasionally he would suddenly break out in the flamenco, laughing aloud many a time in self-amusement.

Oh how she would laugh with him, quietly, muffled, least he heard her, drinking him in with her eyes as he strutted across the stage with an abandonment that most never saw except in those rare flashes when his momentum was hitting that sublime note. It was during these moments that his true greatness would emerge and he would reveal himself to the awe-struck audience that sat in a stunned silence before thundering out in applause.

One time, as if he sensed that he was not alone and could feel her eyes upon him, he stopped the music and kept calling out who was there. She held her breath and sunk low in her chair until he began to feel safe again, allowing her to sneak out without being seen.

She never told him how she felt. She was content, from her safe distance, to watch him, locked in her own little inner fantasy where she allowed herself to dream, lovingly drinking him in from afar, burning with passion, throwing virtual roses onto the stage with her mind, admiring the way his hair tousled across his brow as he danced, smiling to himself, his eyes glowing, a stage light falling softly across the contours of his his face.

She stopped watching him after that night, realizing that she was intruding upon his most private moments, undertsanding that all of us, in one way or another, can be voyeurs. But every so often, over the years, she would find out where he was performing and in spite of herself she would go and watch when the urge hit her, like the desire for the taste of a piece of toffee rolling on the tongue, or that comfortable feel of a favorite strong drink the hand sometimes longs to hold while mulling over old photo albums of times come and gone.