Waltz

I think of silk, though I know it is mere cotton. The feel of it; a little rough, the raised weave, warm to the touch. A peasant skirt, not aristocracy.

But when it flares out just so, as I run down the stairs, I think of silk. The fullness of it, suspended in mid-flow, only the edges rippling smoothly. Only women will ever know that lightness of touch. The way a simple fall of cloth can make you someone else, for just a moment. For six steps of a stairway.

Velvet drapes. Polished brass. Shush of tulle and taffeta on marbled floors.

Slow, quick-quick, slow, quick-quick.

But the steps are stone, and the skirt cotton. I reach the foot of the stairway and cross towards the huddle of people waiting at a set of lights, before the steady mumble of traffic. The city is a little tired and dusty this evening.

The lights change and we all move forward together, in unison.

These are my dance partners, who turn around me and side-step neatly, the traffic the orchestra that builds and fades. We move to the silent waltz in our heads.

Slow, quick-quick. Slow.