By laurel ahlfeld drama_queen_ja@hotmail.com
Date: 20 July 2000
The Dancer
You in your tapshoes with a cigarette hanging out of your mouth. You look so James Dean in your white shirt and jeans I could cry. Your taps echo throughout the two car garage. Each beat shatters the frozen air with severity. You are concentrating so hard that you forget I am near. Not that you cared that much to begin with. Nonetheless, I remain sitting backwards, on a tatterred chair. My finger traces a rip in the flowery material in front of me. I peer over the chair's back and my own eyes begin to trace you. I pretend to admire your skill. Though we both know better. It is only you I am admiring. I know nothing of dance. I only know how content I am to be in your presence. Even when a sharp word is thrown from your mouth and crackles in the crisp springtime air. You curse the concrete floor for hurting your feet. A silvery laugh escapes my lips and lines the structure. You suddenly remember I am still here. With an certain air of smoothness, you shoot a grin my way and continue practicing. A bead of sweat escapes your worn blue bandana and rolls down your tense brow. It hesitates on your lashes. Glistening by your dark eyes. Eyes that are so focused and full of secrets. Dreams and desires I hope you can one day share with me. My thoughts roll with that single bead of sweat to your lips. Pressed so tightly in aggravation oat the very things I admire you for. They release a sigh and you lean on a nearby toolbench. You reach for your coke and a pack of cigarettes. You take a drink and light another cigarette up to relax. The smoke fills my lungs as I take in air like you fill my own self after taking in all I've seen. You collapse next to me and I can already feel body heat radiating from you. It somehow seems to have started thawing this frozen heart of mine.
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