I watched my mama dance with her lovers.
I learned that’s just what lovers do.
That first June night, Jim danced a little too close with a cigarette taste on his lips, his hands searching my skirt–for warmth, he’d said.
Jim always wanted to dance.
We danced over the number on my bathroom scale.
We danced the night that grandpa took his last breath because I’d left dinner unmade.
We danced over the life of the baby he didn’t want.
I forced a smile when we danced in public, reddened wrists burning from his grip.
With every dance my heart voted ‘yes’ to fleeing and ‘no’ for more dances, but the votes were never counted.
One night we danced so hard the blood on his knuckles matched the matted blood in my hair. I had begged him to dance gently.
He promised he’d dance gently the next time.
We danced in the local state park the January night I told him I was keeping his son. This time, Jim was gentle. Jim gently waltzed as the tip of his knife found my pulsating heart. He danced as my milky skin ripped under the serrations. He two-stepped as he kissed my screaming mouth. He danced my blonde head into a black polyethylene bag. He danced me into a forested ravine. And that night, Jim danced so gently that my dancing feet were never found.
I watched my mama dance with her lovers. But mama was one of the lucky ones.
© Sophie Alexander, 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost without permission.
