Posted on September 8, 2014September 7, 2014 by Patricia Ann McNair9.8.2014 Journal Prompt Image from Francis Ha September 8, 2014: She danced. Share this:ShareClick to email a link to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading... Related
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This picture is from my favourite film of last year so I had to write something. See below.
First time I saw her she were dancin. There weren’t no music playin and it were just there in the street and she were dancin. Maybe there were music playin in her head and it took her someplace else, cos it were like she weren’t really there. Her face were all pinched with concentratin and I seen that look before, in girls when they’s bein fucked and there’s a moment when they ain’t really theyselves, when all they is, all they has become, is a feelin and that feelin leaves ‘em breathless and in touch with angels. And that’s how she looked, dancin in the street and no music playin.
Her name’s Fran and close up her eyes is blue with flecks of rust in ‘em. And close up she smells of flowers and peppermint. After I seen her dancin I jes had to talk to her. I asked her if she wanted to go for a drink or jes a walk or we could sit by the side of the road and jes chew the fat. It took her a moment to catch her breath and then she jes nodded and said ‘sure’ but she didn’t say which she wanted.
I took her hand in mine and we went to Hughie’s, which is a bar with dark corners and a jukebox always spittin out songs. She drank white wine and I had a beer. I told her that she danced real good, and she laughed. I said it were her dancin that caught my eye and the way the dancin just filled her up. She leaned across the table and kissed me.
It all moved a little faster than it ever had before and soon enough Fran were moved into my apartment, all her stuff spillin out of split boxes across my bedroom floor, and her panties, light as nothin, dryin on the rail in the bathroom, and bottles of white wine chillin in the fridge, and unwashed dishes fillin the kitchen sink. She pushed all the furniture ‘gainst one wall in the front room so she could dance, and I jes sat back and watched.
Fran danced so good I could hear music even when there were none. I swear I could. Bells ringin in my ears and drums beatin and strings strainin. I felt the music pullin at me, pricklin my sin and takin my breath away. I reckon I coulda sold tickets to the show Fran put on, ‘cept sometimes she danced wearin not a stitch and I wouldn’t want no one to see that but me.
After, when the music stopped, she just lay down on the floor and I lay with her and we were all kisses and touchin and dancin together. She were the best fuckin I ever had and even I felt the hands of angels on me liftin me up.
‘Course, it was jes too good to be real, and one day she were jes gone and all her stuff gone, too. No word to say she were goin, no word at all. I kept the furniture pushed to the wall in the front room for a while after she left, and sometimes I jes sat drinkin beer and watchin the empty space in the middle of the floor where once there’d been a Fran dancin – and sometimes it were like she were still there and I could hear, jes faintly, the sound of music and her feet brushin against the wooden floor and her breath comin in snatches.