The Dance Partner
Spinning tops. We are, her, and I.
Her touch, electrifyingly brief. Her guidance, strikingly rigid. We move as if one. Tethered to one another through circumstance but brought together by chance.
Malleable. We are, her, and I.
She the infinite teacher, I, her finite student. We shift forms, change style. At a distance, we appear mismatched. Chimeric in our unnatural elegance.
When we begin, we appear to be diametrically opposed. A null and alternative hypothesis coexisting in the same system. Our union is uncomfortable, even awkward, at first, but I know we complete one another. One would not, could not, exist without the other.
Time passes. I learn to withstand her withering critique of my being, and in turn she yields to my ignorant imperfection. Superficial incompatibilities melt away and we establish a tenuous truce. Her cool touch warms under my firm grasp. Our limbs entangle and meld. My dexterity and her constancy, always on full display. A show for an audience of none.
We dance and dance through the nights, promising ourselves to one another again and again.
A masterful performance within another. It gets harder each time to return. My legs grow weary, my shoes wear thin. I know she will find another partner when my time comes to leave the floor. But until then, it is just her and I.
She kills me softly, one song at a time. One drop of poison always followed by another. The day begins anew. The lights come up, the nurse clocks in, the IV bag refills. Then, our dance begins.
Finally, alone together, we are, her, and I.