Ballerina

A sock foot ballerina, she glides across hardwood kitchen and sways with the Romeo she has lost to find. She is free as a bird, her dark hair swings past her eyelashes and a few strands become stuck, but she doesn’t notice, nor does she care. The music in her head is played with passion. Her fingers and hands are soaring like white doves on ribbons, tied at her shoulder. She is breathless already from dancing for hours, days, months, years. Dancing for no one. Dreaming of someone. The sink is over flowing again. The water flooding the counter and the suds of dishes forgotten are pouring onto her stage. She doesn't see, absorbed in the fingertips only she can feel, holding tightly to her bony hips she glides through the air, then lands with a splash. She bows. Applause. No one else is in the room. Her t-shirt tutu is tattered and stained, but she continues to dance, and regardless of outward condition it shimmers with each step. She isn’t here at all; she's where we all would wish we could be, if only we could imagine it. She is dancing to remember him, the feeling of his breath, upon her neck. She is never really alone. Memories can be as vivid as men who never bear their souls, but let you sit in their laps. He’s arrived. He's returned. He guides his fingers, tracing tiny pathways with each. One along her waist, one across her cheek, and one from the tip of her bottom lip. She is never alone, but no one is in the room. With a flick of her toe she leaves the ground again, and glides effortlessly into the hallway, where less soapy water interrupts their moment. She pauses then slams him shoulders first against the wall. But it's not over, she's not finished yet. She vanishes with a spin into the living room. Still sock footed and light heeled she carries herself and her heavy heart into a new surrounding. He will chase her, but she will elude him again, just to make sure he's serious this time. The kitchen is flooding, but she has no time for that. This is a matter of love or death. With every tiny tip-toed step she is playing cat to his mouse. Surely she'll let him in, but not just yet... first he has to prove his worth. Sure enough he staggers through the frame of the doorway, he rests there with arms on the wood paneling, looking at her with brown eyes so deep she could swim in them, watching her move, begging her to take the plunge. Not this time, this day, he can try again next week, he can try until she's sure he's actually trying this time. Tonight is hers alone, a ballet of memories, dancing in socks on hardwood floors. Flooding sinks and some brilliant progress later... She is the strongest woman in the world. Two socks, one man, no surrender.