Ballet shoes

She always remembered the dancing.
Even when the studio's details had become lost in the hazy expanse of her memory.
She always remembered the dancing.
Not her own dancing, she was neither gifted nor talented, but she loved it. Loved watching dance. It was what she was, and whether she had the talent to perform was irrelevant.

She remembered the other girl's dancing. Fluid lines and perfect fingers and good turnout.

She remembered the wood floor, that would tilt as she walked across, the soft whisper of her ballet shoes, how she would count beats to the groaning floor that seemed to buoy her up, giving her extra lift.

She remembered the thrill she got whenever she put her shoes on. The smooth, silken lines and the gentle caress of silk on her legs. The little creaks in the material as she tested her feet. Point and flex. Point and flex. Point and flex. In ballet shoes her whole leg was graceful and elegant, obeying her orders, at least for a while.

But it didn't matter. Dance took her away, a magical place where it was just her and the music, the way her mind would collapse in class, desperatly trying to put movements in the right place, at the right place would disapear.

It didn't matter if she was forever humiliated in class, standing next to those who wanted to be dancers-were training for it. She just wanted to dance.

So dance was her best friend and her worst enemy. But it didn't seem to matter when she put on her ballet shoes.