I can’t go back to find them. The memory of purity, of not-knowing freedom just isn’t there.
We might communicate across the gulf. I reached out and there she was. She understood. She moved with me, she could flow and dart and push and act and love. It wasn’t until they pointed out that we were being unchaste, that in dancing our feelings we’d transgressed the bounds of propriety. The next time we could not move together. I’d lost the innocence.
I knew they were wrong. I knew that I’d danced with her and been nothing more than a brother, that every move had been chaste. I knew it and I let them convince me with a single statement that I was evil, that I lusted after her body and that our movement had been my sexual fantasies forced upon her.
She said it, next time. “Your dancing used to be so pure.”
I think it hurt her.
I know it killed a part of me.
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This work is Copyright (c) Mike Fletcher 1995