The Dance

The apartment gleamed in the sunlight. It was a beautiful apartment with oak panelling on the walls, huge marble fireplaces, and spotless Persian rugs. In fact, it looked more like a museum than a home. Yet, something about it felt melancholic.

Notes drifted from an old gramophone, and she was dancing. The walls were adorned with her photographs.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

She peeped through the peephole.

There was no one.

“Are they the naughty kids from upstairs again?” she wondered.

The music stopped. Morning settled over the apartment.

After some time, a man dressed for work stepped out of the apartment. He had an ordinary face, but his eyes gave him away. They revealed years of exhaustion inside him. He was quiet, too quiet, as if he wanted to remain unseen by everyone.

He realised people were staring at him.

But they always stared.

They had their curiosity and their judgments about him.

He ignored them; he always did.

By evening, he returned to the apartment.

When he entered, the flat was pitch dark. His fingers trembled as he switched on the dim yellow lamp.

Then came a woman’s voice.

The music started again, and she danced softly, just as she did every day.

When the dance was over, she looked around the empty apartment. The music had stopped, and silence filled the room.

After a while, he took off his wig and looked into the mirror.

The woman smiled back.