She was a girl who danced with her shadow.

Long ago she had accepted that she was untouchable, that there was a space around her no one would dare cross. When she overheard someone complain that their personal space was being invaded, she smiled, knowing that that was one complaint she would never have to make.

And at night, she would dance with her shadows.

At night when everyone else was asleep she would go into the ballroom to stand surrounded by the mirrors and practice dusty lessons from long-ago Fortnightly classes.

Keep your elbow up, lightly rest your fingers on your partner's shoulder. Stand with your back straight, your head up.

Imagine the line of your jaw is parallel to the line of your arm, parallel to the floor.

Imagine that a beach ball is in between you and your partner's chest.

Even when you were dancing, you weren't allowed to touch.

She liked the waltz the best.

She whirled and twirled in circles on the hardwood floor, watching her reflection in the glass, using her imagination to fill in the empty form in front of her.

Who was he?

Who would he be?

Would he be tall or her height? Shorter? No, not shorter—at least as tall as she was.

Dark hair? Light?

Would he be smiling or serious? Would he gaze at her face, her lips, her smile, her touchable untouchable skin; or would his eyes pierce into hers, trying to delve through them into the soul within?

Would he be skilled at the dance, refined and cultured and smooth? Or would he be rougher, less polished? Slightly clumsy, missing a step every once in a while; more intent on the girl—the woman --in his arms than the moves to be made?

What would he do when the dance ended?

Would he lead her back to the crowd at the edge of the floor and take another partner, or would he stay with her, ask her to join with him again?

She didn't know, but she hoped.

She hoped that he would remember her. That he would come back to her. That he would dance the dance with her.

That he would keep his promise.

---

He was a man who danced with his shadows.

He liked it that way. He was good alone.

When the need got to be too strong he would seek out company. He'd go to dives. To places where no one looked anyone else in the eyes, where he could engage in a parody of the shadowdancing he was so good at.

In the cages he'd dance, but his partners were not strong enough, not fast enough. Dancing with his own shadows was better.

Sitting at the bar, he'd drink. He'd brood. He'd growl at anyone who got too close, who tried to come near him. Who tried to touch him.

When people touched him, he got hurt. It hadn't taken him too long to figure it out—he was her opposite.

The fights and the brawls, they hurt. The fact that he always healed made the hurt worse somehow, meant that he could get hurt again that much quicker.

The girls—the women—the barflies—they hurt him too, even worse than the rednecks he fought in the cage. Where the men failed, the women succeeded.

He healed from physical wounds, but the women kept the other wounds raw.

The wounds inflicted from the knowledge that he was not cultured or slick or smooth. That he was too dark, too brooding, too clumsy, too rough.

The knowledge that, yeah, he was good alone, but maybe he could be better with someone, better with her.

The knowledge that once he had her he wouldn't be able to let go of her again—not for either of their sakes.

The knowledge that it takes two people to dance a dance.

~fin~