A Dance with the Devil [x]
If there was something she could do, it would be to move her body like water. The waves of her dance could send a tide across shores, plunging those who witness her acts unto the depths of her trenches, and allowing themselves to be devastated by the beautiful tragedy that came with her presence.
The music belonged to her, and she belonged to music.
It was perfect. The way her toes twirled sent her whole body into a spiral, creating ripples that delivered men into an awed state, into some kind of trance that had their eyes be pinned on her.
I was no different.
It is no secret that I enjoy a little entertainment, one that involves theatrics, for the most part. There is always something about body language that continues to amaze me. The body never lies*. It betrays humanity’s freewill, acting on its own natural whims as it shakes people to their core, to have our faces burn in heat the more we try to suppress it.
But hers was flawless, her movement disciplined with an impeccable display of control, that even in the face of flattery or exhaustion, she remained unreadable; a blank slate that had me puzzled, a mystery I felt the burning need to discover.
“I wish to speak to the dancer.”
“But she is —“
Brushing the propsman aside, I made my way across the narrow makeshift backstage they had. It was hardly a long way, but the rows of cloth and the number of performers coming in from the other side made it a chore to do so.
“Seven Hells…” I grumbled, shaking my foot to be rid of a coiling lasso around my ankle. A pathetic twist had me limping, causing me to crash against a column of wooden planks lined up for who-knows-why. The noise was enough to have people come to my aid, but the frown painted on my expression sent them scurrying like preys in the midst of a predator.
Brushing myself in an attempt to straighten my clothes, I saw her the moment I turned.
She had her back exposed to me, but our eyes met through the mirror in front of her.
Frankly, I had trouble where to pin my sights next – upon the reflection of her face, or the slender curves of her backside. I mentally shamed, slightly shamed, how both eyes are allowed to focus only on one thing at a time within one’s field of vision. One sees everything, and yet can only study a single tree out of an entire forest.
But the face has numerous tales to tell, and hers told me to look at how her hair dangled from her neck, and how her skin smiled as she moved her shoulder blades. Seated, she swayed her hips slowly, right and left, and her spine waved, as if to tease me as she let the rest of her mane fall like a curtain, sealing the final acts of a play I have yet to thoroughly enjoy.
“What brings you here, Lord Nobunaga?” She asked, smiling at me from her view in the mirror.
I had never been so taken by a sole performance on stage, not one that had me seeking out a woman like this. And yet, despite the resistance, to put what I thought was only a show set up out of the sheer boredom that I wanted to dispel, I have found a pearl I was never looking for in the first place.
It was oddly satisfying, serendipity, they call it, that my lips refused to hide the amusement a moment longer, and soon turned it into a smirk glowing with enchantment that I finally said,
“We shall dance.”
*I read this idea by Milan Kundera from his novel, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, which is, as you know, my favorite ever hehe.