Twirling in Defeat

Dance

I sat there in shock watching these cameras

Four people twirling like madmen in haunting unison; freely and without a clear goal. It's as if they were dancing around each other, able to feel the other's next step.

Except the fact that they are continents apart.

This is how witnessing the dancing plague must've felt like, I thought to myself. Should I contact my superior about this? Would he force me to break them up? This has to have some significance right, it's not coincidental? It couldn't be coincidental they're too in sync. Surely breaking it up would be difficult, how would we break them up anyways? Contact each country individually so we can hunt down these people and tell them to stop dancing? No, it'd be easier to just leave them be, people dance in public all the time, this one surely wouldn't harm anyone.

The first one was a man. The man in Dubai was dressed in a kandura. The long white fabric encasing his body and making interesting silhouettes whenever he moved. His red turban wrapped around the top of his bed had its ends swaying to and fro in the little breeze. He stood out sharply in the dark backdrop that was the very early hours of the morning. His dancing had a certain firmness to it; his moves were swift and quick and confident, a bit uptight and whatever he did he did with his head held high.

I shifted my eyes over to the next camera.

The next one was a woman in Peru. Long black hair cascaded down her shoulders and fell onto a red manta. A festive one at that with pictures on it depicting people in engaged battle. It made her look one with the afternoon sky. She moved similar to the man; quick and striking but lacking the confidence that the man had. Her moves were stiff and co-ordinated but with a certain fiery gaze her unopened eyes somehow seem to emit.

On to the next camera I went.

The third one was a woman in South Africa. A woman with a big afro almost covering her eyes. Her skin reminded me of dark rocks in lakes; light brown that looked like it'd be nice to touch, a smooth comforting feel to it. She was thin, terribly thin and was dressed in an inky flowy dress with white flowery patterns sparkled all over it. Her moves were slow and desperate, as if she were dancing underwater. Despite her face being closed there was a panic on her face, etched into the creasing of her eyebrows and the fold of her mouth.

And then the last one.

The last one was a man. The man in Italy was tall and lanky with rich brown hair. His skin was quite a rich peach, emphasised by the pale blazer and trousers he had on. His tie was a dark cobalt. Making it seem as if he had a hole in his chest where the night sky behind him was filling in. His dancing was the most mesmerising of them all. He somehow pulled off a combination of all 3, being elegant, flowy, slow and yet confident at the same time. He was not doing his own style, just doing a horrid yet cordial dance.

I sat there for minutes, hours, maybe even days watching them dance. Time was but a fluid flowing past me. I did not notice I was getting wet. I don't remember how long I sat there, watching, staring. I remember them going still immediately as if being told by someone to stop. As I went to push the button to alert my boss of this they all turned to the camera, to me, slowly in unison and opened their eyes