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A thousand paper snowflakes fall around me.
It makes me laugh in astonishment.
They’re so fuckingpetrifiedof the opposite sex.
I find myself twirling in front of the chiefs. Paper snowflakes cling to my hair, to my headdress. They skim my bare arms like real snowflakes. I’m reminded of being showered in dark wet leaves all those months ago.
Thisis what they’d rigged?Thisis what they’d devoted the entire morning to?
But then, they’d never expected a dance like mine. They’d expected something clean and earnest from me, not something darkly passionate and wild.
All they’ve done is elevate my dance from something teasing and sexy to a political statement.
This is ascension. Rory’s given my dancelayers.
As snowflakes surround me, all I can think is how stupid he was to go ahead with it, how utterly blinded by vengeance he is for me. Because now it looks like part of my act, part of the dance, like this is exactly how I’d choreographed it. As though I’d chosen the finale to make a point — especially as a reaction against the gremlins’ earlier anti-feminist play.
Is sex the only thing women are good for? Are we snowflakes for saying otherwise?
The female body is political and he’s elevated my dance into a goddamn thinkpiece.
I reach up, catching falling snowflakes in bunches in my open palms.
And then, as the music slows to silence, I take a fistful of snowflakes and blow a wintery kiss at Rory.
