FEEL

38. Symptomania

Symptomania ~ the fantasy that there's some elaborate diagnosis out there that nearly captures the person you are.

~ The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows ~

~°~

"Maybe," Breanna says over the moderately loud music pumping in the speakers, "He's gay."

My eyebrows drop, lips falling agape. "No, he isn't!"

She raises her hands up and says, "Listen, I'm no man, but if I had you prancing around my house in that itty bitty skirt, girl, you'd have been bent over every piece of furniture in this house."

"That's because you're a pervert," I grimace. "And he thinks that he shouldn't just 'cause I'm his student."

"You can be with anyone you want, you know? It doesn't have to be him."

"No," my head shakes, "You don't get it. It has to be him."

Breanna doesn't answer, so I close my eyes and disappear into my own world. She had bought a CD of classic RnB songs while we were shopping to "improve my taste in music" for me. I had to fetch the speakers from Cameron's study and bring them to the living room. We laid on the carpet together and listened to them. Some of the songs bring me back to my early childhood and I can't even pinpoint where and what stage of it. Perhaps an uncle or cousin had played them when I was a really young.

"Get up," Breanna suddenly says, making me turn my head to her. She's on her feet above me now, waiting for me to stand. "Come on, get up."

"Why?"

"You want me to make you?"

I groan, then lift off the floor and onto my feet. A song fades out and another starts playing, this one more vibrant and upbeat than the other. Breanna starts dancing, swaying her hips and moving her body to the music. Catching her drift, I follow her steps and movements, timidly at first, but then the music catches hold of my body and I fall into its rhythmic trance.

"Yes, that's what I'm talking about!" Breanna cheers, turning the volume up. Not too loud as to alert the neighbors, but loud enough to enhance the effect of the musical hypnosis. She whoops and cheers and follows my lead. We ride out the song like a surfer would a high wave, smoothly, with flow and passionate suave.

Sometimes I forget how much more fun things are with company. I would dance like this all the time in my bedroom, alone, with my favorite songs on repeat from my phone. During those times, I would think that I'm having the time of my life. That I don't need people because they would judge the way I dance. They would judge the music I'm dancing to. They would restrict my movements and make my dancing more shy and stiff.

But that's just people. Breanna isn't just people. She's my people. With her, I'm not afraid to be me because I know she wants me as I am. Whether I was a bad dancer or not, good in social environments or not, whether I enjoyed the same things she did or not, it wouldn't change that she liked being with me, and I with her.

The song comes to end and we collapse on the couch, spent. Breanna's phone buzzes right then as if on cue, and she pulls it out of her pockets and raises the screen to her eye level.

"I'm going to a frat party tonight. You interested?"

I grimace, "No."

"Of course not," she sighs, lifting off the couch. "Well, my friends are outside to pick me up. I'll call you later, okay?"

I get up and wrap my arms around her to say goodbye. I'm about to let go, but for some reason, her arms tighten around my waist. She then whispers against my ear, "Looks like someone wants to join the dance."