Roen took both his hands in hers, delicately, and drew him forward a few steps. She matched his grin as she released his hands, although hers still hovered in the air in front of her.
“My mother’s favorite dance was what she called salta. It was one of the first dances she taught me when I was old enough.†She could remember watching her mother and father as she hid behind the stair rails as a young child; they danced in the ballroom below, a heady combination of powerful precision and artistic passion. Her mother had moved effortlessly, gliding across the floor, the fall of her light silk gown barely caressing the marble as she spun about. Roen mimicked the movements as she remembered them.
Her mother and father would cross their arms as they stepped to the opposite side of each other, their limbs never quite touching. Their eyes remained on each other, always, their heads turning in practiced synchronicity even as their bodies did the opposite. They stepped across and then back, then stepped again in the opposite direction, their raised forearms meeting in the middle--hovering mere ilms away from each other before parting again. Their hands would approach each other again, wrist near wrist, as the dancers slowly walked in a circle. Roen recalled the loving glances her parents shared, here in this: their dance; so public, so private.
It seemed so long ago.
“And you do not touch," she said, though her voice caught a moment, stranded on an isle of wistful remembrance. She continued, banishing from her mind the ghosts of times she could never bring back to actual life. "It is a matching and opposing movements in proximity without actual contact that defines the dance.â€
She paused, dropping her arms as she glanced to the Sea Wolf.
“Now you try.â€
“My mother’s favorite dance was what she called salta. It was one of the first dances she taught me when I was old enough.†She could remember watching her mother and father as she hid behind the stair rails as a young child; they danced in the ballroom below, a heady combination of powerful precision and artistic passion. Her mother had moved effortlessly, gliding across the floor, the fall of her light silk gown barely caressing the marble as she spun about. Roen mimicked the movements as she remembered them.
Her mother and father would cross their arms as they stepped to the opposite side of each other, their limbs never quite touching. Their eyes remained on each other, always, their heads turning in practiced synchronicity even as their bodies did the opposite. They stepped across and then back, then stepped again in the opposite direction, their raised forearms meeting in the middle--hovering mere ilms away from each other before parting again. Their hands would approach each other again, wrist near wrist, as the dancers slowly walked in a circle. Roen recalled the loving glances her parents shared, here in this: their dance; so public, so private.
It seemed so long ago.
“And you do not touch," she said, though her voice caught a moment, stranded on an isle of wistful remembrance. She continued, banishing from her mind the ghosts of times she could never bring back to actual life. "It is a matching and opposing movements in proximity without actual contact that defines the dance.â€
She paused, dropping her arms as she glanced to the Sea Wolf.
“Now you try.â€
