The Dancer's Duet

Brenda stared at the man across the table, a bewildered expression plastered on her face. He was… dancing. Not in a club, not on a stage, but right there, in the middle of “The Cozy Corner Café,” a place usually reserved for hushed conversations and the clinking of teacups. His name, Gary had informed her with a triumphant flourish, was Bartholomew, and his chosen method of communication was, apparently, interpretive dance.

Bartholomew, a man of lean build and perpetually earnest eyes, was currently miming the arduous journey of a wilting flower seeking sunlight. His arms, long and graceful, stretched towards an imaginary sun, his body arching and contracting with a sincerity that was both baffling and, dare Brenda admit it, slightly captivating. Gary, seated at an adjacent table with a strategically placed napkin and a furtive glance that screamed “I told you so,” gave Brenda a thumbs-up that was almost imperceptible.

Brenda, on the other hand, felt a cold dread creeping up her spine. Bartholomew’s wilting flower mime had been followed by a dramatic portrayal of a caterpillar transforming into a butterfly, complete with a rather ungraceful shimmy that threatened to dislodge a nearby sugar dispenser. Brenda had managed a weak smile, which Bartholomew had interpreted as enthusiastic encouragement, leading him into a passionate rendition of a stormy sea, complete with flailing limbs and what Brenda suspected was a silent scream.