You are breathless, listening hard. Don’t breathe; you’ll miss it, the soft murmur of her feet, kissing the air.
The dancer is quick and lithe, her movements chaotic as she twists and turns; like a ninja in the night, almost completely silent; her satin shoes barely touching the cold floor.
There is something about her scent, as she leaps by, a pixie without wings.
A strange perfume, maybe of a wildflower, like the kind that grows on a cactus, or maybe even the cactus itself, watery and sweet, quenching the stale dryness in your throat, wetting the cracked remains of your desperate lips.
The perfume is something else though, as if the scent has a violent side, jabbing thorns down your esophagus as it fights its way back up stream; clawing; digging; anything to be free.
It is an electric shock from a livewire that you can’t let go of.
It is a sharp rusty razor biting into delicate skin.
It is tantalizing; enough for you to lean forward to catch another whiff.