Dance Monologue

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Amherst is never dark. And it scares you. There’s a weird feeling in your stomach, the one where it feels like something is gnawing away at it and it makes you sick. Your head is starting to pound right above the right temple. Your feet and knees are fine, however, and so you trail behind your friend as they twirl in their red skirt down the way. “You should come dancing with me, it’ll be fun, trust me!” they had said. You bought it with reflexive hesitance. But it’s late, and they are walking out into town alone and planning on coming home alone as well. That’s not something you allow. Mom would be appalled to hear that you let a feminine presenting person walk into a strange place alone at night and did nothing to stop or go with them …show more content…

Your friend wants you to learn how to dance, You blink once more, tilting your head. Dancing is not something you know how to do. You’ve only ever really attended a handful of dances in your life (school dances, all of them), and you sat in the corner during all of them, head tilted in fascination and confusion at the mass of writhing teenagers on the dancefloor. The music you couldn’t dance or sing along to was miasmic, threatening to shut you down. It’s not like you had any desire to associate with any of the people there anyway. Their sneering faces and delicate but venomous tone when they spoke with you killed that desire at the …show more content…

You laugh a bit, but less because you find your inherent clumsiness funny, and more because you’d rather not have your friend worry; their face dropped for a moment before you flashed a smile (always the same, fake smile; the one everyone does back at home when people they don’t like appear) that set them at ease. They pull you back into the hall with renewed vigor, and within seconds and a “would you like this dance?” they’ve gotten themselves a partner to dance with, a tall, beardy sort of man who makes your friend look small and waifish in comparison. Everyone you ask to dance shrugs with a “I’m sitting this one out”, or “I already have a partner for this one”, and the gnawing in your stomach grows worse. You shrug to your friend, whose face is starting to wrinkle at their forehead in frustration. You’ll sit this one out, you say. It’s fun to watch, you say. All things you have repeated to yourself for years

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