Dancing with a Dead Girl
**This short story is an original work**
I was there the night she died.
She was very much alive. Living. Breathing. Bright.
The night of the wedding was when I met her. The same night she passed.
I knew only the bride. A cousin of mine. The room for the celebration was filled with friends and family that I hardly knew, most of whom I’d never met. An occasion where I accurately guessed that the majority of my time would be spent in quiet. I could do little but watch and put on a fake smile.
I was glad for the bride. Who wouldn’t be? But it was difficult to feel genuine here. With not one friend to talk to and everyone preoccupied in their own conversations. So, I sat at my table, expecting small talk, but mostly silence.
I should mention that I’m an introvert. I don’t start conversations.
But she sat next to me. The “dead” girl. See, she was rather outgoing, unlike myself. Her eyes glanced about. At me. At my food. I looked up, wondering why she was looking at my food, but then stared right back down at my chicken.
Her eyes persisted. And mine were distracted. So, too, my appetite. I coughed.
“Why are you eating your chicken like that?” she asked.
I stared down at my meal. The sides were cut first, and I was left with a thick piece of meat from the middle. “What do you mean?”
“I mean why are you cutting around it?” The way she said it wasn’t mean or judgy, more curious and fun. I glanced at the other plates on the table and saw that I might have been doing it wrong.
“Is there a right way?” I replied, lifting a brow ever so slightly.
“When you put it that way,” she smiled. “No, I don’t think there is.”
I jerked my head back. I, quite honestly, was not expecting such a response. “Well, I do it with everything I eat. My steak. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I save the middle because it’s the best part. And the outer parts are just… gross.”
“I agree.”
I nodded. “So, then, how do you eat chicken?”
“See, I like to flay mine. Remove the skin entirely.”
I squinted. “Really? I didn’t think anyone was crazier than me.”
“Alora. Nice to meet you!” She held out her hand, and I shook it.
Alora, I whispered to myself. It wasn’t until now that I got a good view of her. She was gorgeous.
Black hair curved and touched her shoulders. Straight and wound in a bun at her back. Her dress modest but brilliant, rose red and inset. The style fit. And she. A beauty to behold. Short in stature, elegant and thin. Her pale face without blemish. Even as she slumped her shoulders, she seemed to still the room with affectionate brown eyes. Confident yet serenading.
The spirit she brought, more elegant still. A bright demure. A joyful surprise. A delightful cheer hidden behind not much of a smile.
And I. I was moved by her. More so than others. Drawn to talk with her. Like a monk drawn to solitude.
“Johnathan,” I introduced myself. “So, tell me. In what other ways are you crazier than me?”
“I like to read books upside down.”
“Okay, that’s bizarre. I’m pretty sure I read books like a normal person.”
“Is there a right way to read a book?” she pressed.
“I guess not,” I smirked.
“Well, you should try it upside down sometime.”
“Wouldn’t the blood rush to your head and you’d get dizzy?”
“That’s what’s so fun about it!”
I was blatantly grinning at this point. “All right, what about this? Do you eat your brownies with hot sauce?”
“No, but now I know what I’m doing tomorrow.”
“Really? Most people shrink back from that.”
“If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m weird…”
The conversation carried. We talked about everything. From sports to Segways. Nothing was off the table. And the way she spoke, with such tact, was more than I expected from any small talk. But, then again, this wasn’t small talk. It was something deeper. Surprisingly, we had more in common than I could ever have anticipated. Same political views. Same religion. Same obsession with jazz and 80’s movies. She really was weird.
In came Chuck.
He was older than me by a little. He was supposed to be sitting at another table.
“Dancing soon,” said Chuck, leaning his arm on Alora’s chair. “You better be ready.” He sounded French. Did I mention that I hate the French?
“Yes!!!” She turned to him. “I love dancing!” She looked back at me.
“Me, too,” I said, delighted that we had yet another interest in common, yet slightly annoyed with Chuck for interrupting our conversation.
Chuck imposingly took a seat. “And who’s this?”
I was introduced. And I reluctantly shook his hand. A skeptical look on my face.
“So, Chuck, are you Alora’s brother?” My heart throbbed with hope.
“No, just someone she knows. We met in Paris.” He said it so French that I wanted to hit him.
“Well, I’ve never heard of a Frenchman named Chuck before.”
“My mother’s from Germany. Interesting story on that, might I say…”
And he told the story of how his mother traveled to America when she was young and that she was so deeply inspired by Chuck Norris that she vowed to name her firstborn boy after him. The story was actually really interesting, and I might have wanted to be friends with him if I didn’t think he was trying to steal my opportunity to court Alora.
At some point near the end of his story, he glanced over to someone waving at him from another table. “Excuse me, but I am being called.” He turned to Alora. “Remember, Alora. Dancing.”
Although the way he said his last comment was a little strange, Chuck finally moved on to another table. And I could resume my chat.
“So…” I said. But she seemed to grow cold. And I had to scratch my head. She excused herself to go to the bathroom.
A minute later, the music started, and everyone rose to the dancefloor.
After a bit of waiting, I followed the crowd.
I started dancing but realized that I was alone. So, I stopped. And stared at the crowd that twirled in circles. I looked around for Alora. But I couldn’t find her. Neither was Chuck anywhere to be seen. My feelings toward Frenchmen were solidified. Well, that is, Frenchmen named Chuck.
I gazed into a crowd of strangers. The feeling of discomfort returned to me.
But then she returned, too. From behind a glass door near a patio connected to the dancefloor. My mood immediately improved. Especially since Chuck was still nowhere to be seen.
She said nothing and held out her hand. I took it. And we danced. Swung in circles like the strangers did. I didn’t feel like a stranger anymore. And I smiled. And she smiled. And we danced until we were out of breath.
We crashed on some chairs, smiling, laughing. Not saying much. And I stared at her. And she at me. And I asked, “Say, do you have a boyfriend?” My heart stopped. Blood flushed to my cheeks.
“I don’t,” she said, but then went cold. Quiet. For a long time. I should’ve been relieved. But her whole behavior changed. Her attitude had gone from happy to sad in a matter of moments. And that’s when her expression stiffened. And she stared out as if into nothing.
I could hear the pain in her voice.
“You have to understand, I – I have certain internal complications that make it impossible for me to have a romantic relationship.”
Shock took me.
And I sat there. Not doing much.
In came Chuck again, sitting on the other side of her. He didn’t say a word. He just sat there and watched the dancing. And he clapped along. But I didn’t care to be irritated by him. I still tried to process her words.
“What kind of internal complications?” I asked.
She swallowed, “Let’s not talk about it now. Come on, let’s dance!”
And she held out her hand for both of us to go with her. But I did not take it.
After sitting and staring blankly, I got up and walked to the bar. The drink of choice: cider.
The bride stepped behind me. “Hey!” she said, joy on her face. “I haven’t seen you yet.”
I turned to give her a hug. “Congratulations!” I smiled the best I could.
“Thank you, thank you! Yes, very happy to finally be done with it. I love Mark, but we both agree. It’s horrible planning weddings,” she rolled her eyes. “So, have you been enjoying yourself?”
“Yeah,” I lied. “I’ve been talking with Alora.”
“Oh, her?” Her smile dimmed. “She truly is a lovely girl, but…” She sighed.
“I think she told me,” I said. “What’s she sick with if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Cancer. She refuses to get treatment because they haven’t given her a high chance –”
“–I’m sorry for bringing it up. You shouldn’t be speaking about this on your wedding day. I’m sorry Megan. Please. Let’s talk about something happier. How’s Mark doing…?”
When the bride left to talk with the other guests, I stared into my cup. The hot and bubbling cider that filled it. My heart, too, felt filled. Warm though my mind protested. And the haze lessened. And I realized the truth about the dying gem named Alora. What she said wasn’t fraud. It wasn’t mean nor disrespectful. It wasn’t rejection. It was simply Love. Kindness. Respect. The Truth.
She was dying when all she wanted to do was truly live. And I realized that behind her aura was a truer beauty than what she had displayed.
And Chuck must have been protecting her. Darn. Now I felt bad for disliking Chuck.
I turned back to the dance floor and marched toward her. I tapped Chuck on the shoulder, and he turned. “May I cut in?” I said.
He smiled. “Happily.”
And I took her. And we danced. But then her smile faded. And she began to cry. And she cried more. And I held her. “Don’t cry,” I said. “Don’t cry.” Tears soaked the white of my suit.
“Listen to me,” I said, holding her head closer to my chest. “One day. One day when you open your eyes, everything in the world will be right. It might not be now. But it will be one day. And someone will take your hand to dance, and you won’t hold back. It will all be all right. One day.”
She wiped her eyes, and a gentle smile whispered a thank you.
And she hugged me, and I embraced her. Tightly…
She died a few months later. I remember when Megan called to tell me. I never forgot how she sounded. How her voice fumbled with sobs and hysterical echoes. True and painful sounds. And all I could do was comfort her.
As for me, I can say much about Alora, although I only truly knew her for that one day at the wedding.
Beauty of beauties. Her name was Alora. And when she died, I did not mourn. Because she didn’t die just once. She died a thousand times every day. In a thousand different ways. Every time she saw two lovers hold hands. Or embrace one other. Or dance. Every time she saw, every time we spoke, she died.
And now. Now her life is dancing.
