Page 64 of Dancing in the Dark

“Go away, Anderson.” I speak to no one. To myself. To the idea of a pet I don’t own, though the younger version of me, the girl I once was, always pictured herself with an adorable Beagle waiting eagerly at the door.

Releasing the third set of blinds, I cut the light in my living room by about eighty percent, so instead of the late afternoon sun beating down on my west-facing wall, I get shadows and cool air from the air conditioning system that only works sometimes.

I get music and darkness and a deep bass thumping from my speakers.

Until another text obnoxiously intrudes.

Exasperated, I stalk back to my phone and glower at the half a dozen texts, all from the same annoying person.

Why won’t you speak to me, Sera?

Are we really that incapable of a respectful adult relationship?

What did I do to warrant your cold shoulder?

I don’t understand why we’re like this.

Are you okay? I know work has been stressful, so perhaps that’s why your mood has plummeted.

I’d like to see you, Sera. We can talk.

I know I told Charlie to make contact once he was done with his day, but if I want even five minutes to draw my nervous system back on its axis, I can’t do it with Anderson’s constant disruptions screwing with my music, so I swipe down on my screen and find the toggle that allows me to switch my phone onto Do Not Disturb.

The mayor’s number is on the list of contacts able to override that setting. When I get a minute later, I’ll add Charlie, too. And Mia, although she’s yet to send me a message that actually makes sense.

I’ll probably add Cato, too, since he’s with Mia as often as he is.

And Minka and Aubree and Archer and…

I sigh.

Instead of cultivating a list of people I want to allow access beyond my Do Not Disturb features, I should simply create a list of those I want to silence.

Anderson is the list.

Still, that’s for later. For right now, I lock everyone out and ensure my music remains unbroken, then setting the phone down again, I finger-comb my hair high, pulling the locks into a ponytail that has the ends still tickling my neck and shoulders.

I like it when I feel the tickle, especially after so many years of severe buns and helmet-style hairspray layers.

Lowering my arms, but lifting to the balls of my feet, I move in the shadows and feel, for the first time since Mia and I danced in the dark, the way everything calms within me.

My racing thoughts slow. The churning in my stomach eases. The tension I carry in my shoulders dissipates. I follow the rise and fall of instrumental music, allowing it to recalibrate the speed of my pumping blood. To burn the noisy fog from my mind, the way early morning fog scampers away from a rising sun. It draws me to my toes and makes it easier for me to extend my legs.

To open my lungs. To broaden my chest.

Music, to me, is like oxygen to regular people, and dancing here in the dark, where no one else gets to see or judge? It’s the difference between breathing smoggy, dirty, thick city air, versus stepping outside your secluded log cabin built amongst mountains and slow-moving streams.

Anyone who has experienced both knows they’re not the same.

Like it always does, my smile comes, especially as I pirouette and spin. I find the same spot on the same wall on each revolution I make. Spin and spot. Spin and spot. Spin and spot.

I feel the ache in my feet, although I’ve been doing this my whole life. I bathe in the stretch in my legs and the metaphorical belt strapped around my torso, holding my stomach in and lifting my ribs. I luxuriate in the sweep of my hair on bare shoulders each time I turn, and as the music changes, so does my position.

I transition into an arabesque and imagine, like I have a million times before, teaching Mia how to get hers right.

She doesn’t do it well yet, though I know she’s working hard at it. I swear, my body itches all over every time I catch her trying. But simply thinking about critiquing her form feels horrifyingly similar to the shit my mother used to pull, and even if my intentions are purely to help the little girl who wants to do better, I won’t do it.

I refuse.