She Didn't Dance

She didn't dance, and it was an endless source of arguments. He would argue that it was good to lose control and let yourself go. She said that it might be good for him, but if she did that it might not be good for everyone else. He said that she was being her own worst critic and she couldn't possibly be as bad as she was making herself sound. Besides, what if they got married? She'd have to dance them! She raised an eyebrow at this implication. He raised his eyebrow back, and then thrust out his left arm, put his right arm around the waist of an imaginary partner, and waltzed off while pretending to weep. She laughed and returned to her painting. 

She never discouraged him from dancing, or refused to attend an event that involved dancing. She'd go with him to the night clubs and find a luxurious alcove, usually in the VIP section, and sip a bellini, a cosmopolitan, or a margarita. She enjoyed the music, and some of the places they went did put considerable thought and effort into the colors, and lighting. 

They had attended a wedding of one of his friends, and she had overheard a girl he was dancing with talking about her. The girl was drunk, and had said "Why is your girlfriend just sitting there? Is she mad at you or just being a bitch?"

He had laughed, "No, she's not mad at me at the moment. But keep it down or she'll hear you."

"So what if she does? Are you afraid you're going to have to stand up for her?"

"Oh I would love to, but she doesn't need me to stand up for her. You don't want her to hear you say that because she considers it a compliment, and I honestly don't think you're tough enough to be her friend. I'm looking out for you, really!" 

At the table, she had sipped her margarita to hide her smile. 

One night, they were walking home very late from a club. He was a little too drunk to walk straight and kept stumbling. They were still pretty far from home when she noticed they were being followed by two men. She giggled. The living blades at her waist, and strapped to her chest, arms, and legs, were very hungry, and the exercise would help her fall asleep. 

She turned into a dark alley. The men followed. Halfway down the alley, another man appeared at the opposite end, cutting off their exit. He stumbled against her again, and she used her hip to flip him over and toss him into the dumpster next to them. She didn't want him getting hurt.

At the burst of movement, the men rushed in from both sides. She chose the katana this time. Her form-fitting purple gown did not seem to have anywhere to hide an entire sword, and this caught the men off guard. As the first pair reached her, one grabbed at her arm to pull the katana away and the other circled to get behind her. 

She did a perfect pirouette and cleanly sliced off the arm of the man reaching for her sword. Then she did a pique turn and buried the blade in the second man's chest all the way up to the tsuba. The blade drank deeply.

She performed a fouette, a powerfu turn that pulled the blade free and whipped it towards the neck of the one-armed man, severing it completely. With a petite jete', she plunged the katana vertically down the neck. The blade drank deeply. 

The third man at the end of the alley realized he had no chance and turned to flee. She did a tour de reins, a spinning jump, contracting her back muscles and leaning toward the center of her spin at a sharp angle. All the momentum was channeled into the katana, launching it from her hand like a javelin. The sword flew straight into the fleeing man's back. He crumpled face-first into some garbage, and was still. The blade drank deeply, and was finally full. 

Her boyfriend was peeking his head out of the dumpster, his eyes wide. She smiled, and did a little arabesque over to retrieve the katana, still sticking up out of the last man's back. 

There was a blur, and the katana was gone, and all he saw was his girlfriend in her elegant purple gown, looking just slightly out of breath. She walked towards him. 

"Ready to go home?" She held out her hand to help him out of the dumpster. 

"Yes. Yes I am."

They exited the alley. He looked back at the headless man. "My love?"

"Yes?"

"It's okay if you don't want to dance at our wedding."

She smiled. "How very gracious of you. I'll try to keep that in mind."

THE END. 

Author's Note: I sincerely apologize to actual ballet dancers. I'm sure there are moves that are far more lethal than the ones I try to describe here, but please consider that I don't really know what I'm doing and technically it was the katana that was doing the killing. Which I had to add, again, because I don't know how a ballerina assassin would actually go about killing someone, I'm only certain that they COULD kill someone.

Seriously have you ever seen a ballerina's feet?! It's like they lift weights with those things. They look like they could kill you with just their pinky toe. 

Goodnight, and I love you all. If I'm found tomorrow plie'd to death, just leave it alone. It's just better for everyone not to anger Big Ballet.