Mirror Dance

Tables. Lots of them. People. Cheerful and noisy chatter and the rustle of colorful taffeta dresses and suits, the scent of cloying perfumes carrying the atmosphere from day into night; as the amount of consumed alcohol rises, ties loosen, collar buttons come undone, inhibitions and formalities slowly evaporate into sweet submission.

But we just sit there, at our table.

Only the innocent sparkle of colorful eyeballs and mischevious half-smiles reveal what we might expect from the rest of this evening. Glasses chime, well-wishes ring out and laughter bursts forth with deafening power. Shoulders touching more and more often, legs innocently meeting beneath the table, as if our body parts were exchanging dirty little gossip everytime they touch. But we do not speak of it, because to everyone else it means nothing. The hand placed on my knee afterward, the one that smooths my hair, gently brushing its way through tells nothing to anyone but me. It is this hand that reaches out towards me to ask me for a dance after our final glass of drink.

Naively, I accept.

For the first few moments, our rythm fits exactly together, because even now we are on the same wavelength, as always. I let you lead, because I know that this is what you want. So I gladly let you place your hand on my waist. You take a hold of me with confidence, you pull me closer to you, take and lift my other hand, then smile into my eyes. Then you begin to sway me to the rythm of the music.

At first, I feel I am exactly where I should be. I do not have to pay attention to anything else, only to you, because you know exactly when and how to move us. We are both perfectly aware of who plays which role, where we stand and where we are headed.

I sense no particular uncertainty in you, even though you have told me about it so many times. About people who made you decide not to lead, but to follow without question instead. To match their rythm, because you thought that if you let them set the pace, then they would want to dance only with you, and no one else. But every single time you were left alone in the end, no matter how much you adapted, obeyed, conformed, helped. Alone among the happily dancing crowd of people, wondering what could possibly have been wrong with you? Maybe you simply had not danced well enough?

I know that feeling. Quiet. Humiliating.

At times of abandonment like that, every eye is fixed on you, and everyone thinks: Poor thing... they really left him there. What could have been wrong with him? He probably just did not dance well enough...

See? Does the one left standing alone on the dance floor really think anything different from the one watching with pity? As this happens to you more often and often, perhaps after a while the right question occurs to you: Who the hell could answer that for me? Them or me..?

And one day.. one day hopefully you realize: It is you.

Yet I know that even now, you are afraid of the same thing; that I will suddenly disappear too, leaving you alone on the dance floor, causing you to fall apart all over again while asking yourself: What could have been wrong with you? Maybe you simply had not danced well enough?

But right now you are the one leading. You are the one showing me the way. You are the one who moves first. And I follow you.

But that is still not enough for you.

The music gives the rythm consistently. You take a step, I take a step. You turn, I turn with you. As if we were standing and dancing opposite each other and I were holding up a mirror. As if you were dancing with your own reflection.

Who is more afraid? You, or your reflection? Who leaves whom behind?

Your hand gently tighten on my waist, you rest your head against mine. You close your eyes for a moment. Perhaps you are saying goodbye? But you do not relax. Neither do I.

After all, I am your reflection.

A reflection of yours does not doubt you. It does not ask why you move to the right or to the left. It does not criticize you because you missed a beat. Just as it does not fault you for not daring to relax and believe that it could not simply leave you behind.

And yet you slowly let your fear go ahead of you, while in your mind you are rushing at a desperate speed toward the worst possible outcome - and at the same time, the one most familiar to you. It is like Stockholm-syndrome; you have hopelessly fallen in love with your captor, and whenever it calls for you, you run into its arms without question.

Through all of this - your reflection - remain there. I am forced to take the offered hand of your greatest fear if I do not want to be left alone on the dance floor while you disappear.

You leave me no choice.

So without thinking, I accept that hand. The touch is cold, it sends a shiver through my body as it places the other hand on my waist. But I lift my head up to face it.

Instead of you. Because you are no longer there and you are not coming back.

The music is no longer pleasant. My feet begin to ache, my body grows heavy. But I hold myself steady as we lock eyes with your impeccably perfect-looking captor with black eyes and self-satisfied smile, as we are dancing.

The dance floor suddenly becomes dark, the final chords ring out, but he does not let go of me. And only then, the realization cuts through me:

I have become the perfect reflection of your Fear.