In his dreams she was always dancing – her arms lifted in an arc above her head, her body spinning and gliding to silent music. She always had her eyes closed and her lips slightly parted. She’d dance and dance endlessly, her movements fluid and ethereal. Whenever she appeared in his dreams he’d always long for her to dance forever.
But she never did. After a while she would always stumble and collapse on the wooden floor, clutching her ankle and crying. It would always happen in slow motion, and her collapse, however clumsy and painful it supposedly was, always looked careful, coordinated and graceful.
The dreams would always end then, hiding her broken self from his gaze.
In reality she never danced. After waking up he would always move closer to her, wrapping his arms around her warm skin beneath the covers. He’d plant a kiss on her shoulder and then rub the stump of her missing leg with his palm. From the way she reacted to his touch, and from the slight twitch in her limbs every time he watched her sleep, he guessed that in her dreams, she was always dancing too.
Every day during February I am writing and posting a piece of creative writing inspired by a prompt. The prompts are being taken from here, although I may shuffle some of the days around if I fancy.