I was watching the floor. I was watching their reflections, contemplating the counts of the music they were making in my head. Each time the ball hit the floor it was a normal note. Sometimes a quarter, others an eighth, and others a sixteenth, but never any longer than a quarter. Each time they paused before shooting was a rest, some longer than others. The rhythm of moving feet against the gym floor as they prepared themselves to block their opponent from reaching the goal. To keep them from scoring. The swish of the net as the ball passed through it or went too low. And there’s the noise of the ball against the rim or the backboard adding to the rhythm.

I was watching the floor. I was watching their reflections as they danced along following the players’ movements. Following the music. I don’t know if they knew that their reflections were on the floor. I couldn’t see the faces of the reflections anyway. Mysterious dancers, lost in the music of their game.

I was watching the floor. I was watching their reflections, remembering when I used to play this game too. When I used to help with this music. When my reflection used to dance to this music. I know new music now, like my fingers moving swiftly over the fret board of my guitar or the keys of my flute. Or like dancing to music from a radio. Music that other people make. Sometimes I dance to the music that I make, the beautiful melodies in my head. I dance real dances now though, it’s not just a reflection, blurred and unreadable, dancing across a newly polished gym.

I was watching the floor. I was watching their reflections, lost in a world of music.