Summer 2013 - Vol. 10, Issue 3

Chrissy spun at the foot of the bed with her left hand in the air. She was dancing. The room was dark, and only some of the moonlight seeped in through the plastic shutters.

 

"What are you doing?" Michael said.

 

She spun faster, her hand flinging around as if she were a Kuchipudi dancer in India. Michael watched her for a moment and smiled. She was a child. A bird. One of those flailing green air men in a used car lot.

 

"You're beautiful," Michael said, "but please come back to bed."

 

She didn't stop. Faster and faster she went.

 

"Chrissy."

 

Michael propped himself up and when he put his hand down to his right, where Chrissy slept, he was met by her warm flash. She pushed his hand away.

 

"Uhnth," she said.

 

The girl danced on. He couldn't stop watching. There was a little tornado in the room and Michael wanted it to suck it in. He was Helen Hunt. He was the storm chaser. And, like that, with a blink, she was gone.

 

Michael put his head against the pillow and drifted off to sleep, unsure of how he would interpret the experience in the morning, or if he'd even remember.