The audience applauds as the heavy red curtain lifts. Music swells from beneath the stage and one can easily lose themselves in the story that is about to unravel before their anticipating eyes. One can easily appreciate the elegant crafting of the set, the seamless conducting of the orchestra, the witty punchlines of the script – at least if one is attuned to notice such things, as the pompous little man seated in Row Seven, Seat F claims to be.
He is in the awkward transition from balding to entirely bald and perspiration shimmers on the smooth flesh of his exposed forehead. The room is warm, not hot. The rotund figure produces a yellowing, once white handkerchief from a concealed pocket in the breast of his suit jacket and mops the sweat from his brow self-consciously. His watery black eyes dart nervously around the room, not fixating on the scenes before him for several long minutes. When he does, the handkerchief is slowly lowered, for the sight before him is awe-inspiring.
A dancer, a graceful dancer, moves before him. Her lithe body is encased in a silver leotard and it moves with her, as seamlessly and fluidly as she does. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun and after a few moments it occurs to our subject that she was a ballerina – how he did not see it before, he wonders. The dancer’s eyes are closed, green makeup smeared liberally across them. It only adds to her beauty as she glides. She is the centre of all focus. Every set of adoring eyes is fixed upon her swaying form, including the little man’s. Again, slowly, the handkerchief rises to dab at his damp face.
All else fades to black as the music darkens. A male leaps onto the stage, his presence commanding. His shoulders ripple and hunch, almost predatory, as he writhes and snakes across. The bespectacled spectator is intimidated by him. The masculine dancer glares out over the crowed, slithering surely towards the beautiful woman. She looks down and away, then up and at him.
Their eyes clash. He hardens, she wilts.
The man moves; jerky, erratic. His dancing is not for the audience now, but to assert his dominance. The woman sags where she stands, her previously taut muscles now weakening. Her movements are sloppy now, less graceful. Listless. The predator draws close and cups the woman’s face with a hand hardened by years of physical labour. The supercilious onlooker waits with bated breath. This surely is not part of this grand production – the acting is too raw.
The dusty, old curtain falls on the final scene, with a sense of finality. The pretentious observer mops his brow a final time, rises with difficulty and makes his way out of the theatre. The show has ended, the play is over and still the dancing couple stand – her, against the wall, eyes flicking away desperately, him, one strong hand around her throat, asserting his dominance, predatory.
manelynMay 11, 2015 - 04:58 I so love this, and would look forward for more :D Good, good, good!
misslyssMay 11, 2015 - 11:46 Thanks so much!