The dancer's shadow
I sat at the side of the dance studio, hidden away behind the office blocks and wear houses, watching as an elderly woman corrected the steps of two teenage dancers: one wearing red and one wearing blue. The one in red, whose name I soon learnt was Lydia, wore her hair in such a perfect bun that it looked as though it had been plastered to her head. She danced as though her feet were magic wands, enchanting my eyes with each movement until I could not look away. Each step had it’s own character, some gentle, some fierce, some shy and some ostentatious. They drew me in like a warm duvet on a cold morning, awakening a dream that would not die, like an ex-lover I could not fully leave.
I sat at the side of the dance studio, hidden away behind the office blocks and wear houses, watching as an elderly woman corrected the steps of two teenage dancers: one wearing red and one wearing blue. The one in red, whose name I soon learnt was Lydia, wore her hair in such a perfect bun that it looked as though it had been plastered to her head. She danced as though her feet were magic wands, enchanting my eyes with each movement until I could not look away. Each step had it’s own character, some gentle, some fierce, some shy and some ostentatious. They drew me in like a warm duvet on a cold morning, awakening a dream that would not die, like an ex-lover I could not fully leave.