The Dancer

She was kind, she had a grace and way with words that reflected her lifelong profession: dancer. She was younger than the man, but like two ships appearing on a vast ocean they had stopped briefly to exchange charts and compare the weather. For a while they sailed companionably, speaking of books and adventures. They were on the same route to different destinations. She was recovering from a dancing injury and he was living a quiet existence after the loss of a loved one. On dark autumn days they would sit in coffee shops munching on dry biscuits and stale coffee exchanging glances across a stack of books. Sometimes they didn't speak, they would enjoy each other's presence and the warmth that comes from companions. Their days would end at night in bookshops, they would flip through books and chat animatedly. He would recommend a book that was obscure, esoteric or strange to confound her. He would watch for her reaction, but everytime it was the same: that same slow mischievous grin that would end with a flurry of summaries, analysis, laughter. She would look embarrassed, and with her long nails she would brush some hair behind her ear. They would return to the coffee shop sipping espresso long into the cold winter nights.

She would disappear for a week, maybe two. He would hum pleasantly while slightly wrinkled fingers turned crisp yellow pages, occasionally thinking of her. He considered telling her she was like a stray cat, but dismissed the idea: Too familiar. He knew when she returned when he would find a book wrapped neatly by his front door. He would unfold the paper, place the book on his bookshelf before adjusting his glasses and selecting one he thought she would like. He would carry the book to the coffee shop at the usual time, walk in and see that impish smile. Another week would pass companionably, the scratching sounds of pages, the clinking of stir spoons and the low hum of muffled conversation was the background sound of their meetups and conversations.

One week she didn't appear, the man thought little of it. Business was picking back up for his small calligraphy and tutoring business. He had begun taking long walks in the park with a woman his age. Her leg had healed and he understood that she'd be busy. Half way into the second week he sent her a text: "Coffee?" She never replied and he felt the dull ache of worry. He felt disappointed but he understood, he had been young once too after all. Perhaps a young man had taken her fancy, maybe work had picked up, perhaps a sick relative. He understood, but it still hurt. The ache existed but he knew she would be back.

The weeks passed, and things had progressed. He was writing full time now and slowly articles of the woman his age had begun to accumulate in his apartment. She snored quietly, he briefly watched the steady rise and fall of her sides of deep sleep. His heart ached pleasantly. There was the smell of merlot from the previous night, two stained glasses stood on a faux marble counter. He poured a cup of cold coffee and with deft swipes on his laptop he skimmed his drafts and withheld a brief nagging temptation to work. A newsfeed that he hated popped up: Two Months Since Passports Revoked, War In Balkans Escalates. He was stunned. His friend had not left, she had been taken from him. For a brief moment he felt the same ache for her as he did for the woman on the couch. He considered visiting the embassy, but he did not know her full name. He sent a concerned text that he knew would go unanswered. He stood and looked ahead with a slightly glazed expression, he felt as if a stone sat in his throat. In a state of shock he went to the bookshelf, habitually adjusted his glasses and selected a book. He threw on his pea coat and quietly crept out. He arrived at the coffee shop and stared at their table, the smell of stale coffee and biscuits seemed far away. He did not know how much time had passed but eventually he placed the book on the table and walked away.

He arrived back home and hung his coat, the door and the rattling of keys must of woken up the woman. Her head poked up above the couch, her face stretched out in a wide yawn that rustled her mussed up hair. He walked over, kissed her and lingered a bit. He pulled away and she gave him a confused sleepy smile: "What's with you?" He quietly poured them both a glass of merlot and they sat in silence staring at the blustery weather through rain streaked windows. He reached over, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. Something was wrong, but he would tell her, he always did. She smiled contentedly, resting her head on his shoulder and taking one of his hands. He returned the gesture with a light squeeze. They watched the rain together, and as he looked at the gray clouds he recalled the previous year and the brief time he had spent with the dancer. The amalgamation of feelings produced an ache in his chest but it was a good ache. He looked at the woman next to him and those always curious eyes searched his face. She yawned again and together they watched the rain.