|
The
by
PHILIP
KANE
Dancing, she felt that all the world was hers. Dancing, she felt that all the world was bliss. Dancing, she could never run out of breath. She was surprised that nobody came out to stop her, her eyes becoming wider and rounder the further she went on through the silent city. The silence was so profound because it was so unusual, so unexpected. And nobody to stop her, nobody to tell her she was foolish, nobody to tell her not to wear the orange dress because it was too bright, too colourful, too intense. In the park she began to run freely, wildly. She flung her arms out, like a child pretending to fly, the wide sleeves of her dress billowing as the wind filled them. She began to laugh with the innocent pleasure of the moment. The paths along which she ran were otherwise deserted. She was sharply aware of roses on either side of her, of thorns that could snag her and of the red fleshy petals that had always reminded her of her own sex. Quite suddenly, she stopped. Ancient trees reached out over the path from either side, like the roof of a cathedral, just where she stood with her heart beating fiercely on the wall of her chest. The roses appeared translucent, as if made of stained glass. The wind gusted, and the dry dead leaves came swirling around her like a circling of crows. |
She
was
wearing
her
orange
dress,
the
orange
dress
that
made
her
as
vivid
as
a
flare
or
a
firework,
and
she
was
dancing
through
the
empty
streets.