Teach Me How to Dance

28.7.24

I spent the entirety of the ride home looking out the window: up at the stars that never shone in the city. Their light painted the trees in the distance as with the grass to the side of the train. All around me were closed eyes, strangers asleep in the dead of night. Loud as the train was, the countryside offered peace and quiet unlike anything I had known for years. Perhaps these strangers were accustomed to the peace. Perhaps they were simply enjoying it — at last a chance to rest.

I looked down at my book. Three hours passed and three hours to go. I had turned one page. And I was tired. I had not slept, and I had been traveling. But I could not sleep. Not because of anything related to the journey, but because of the stars. Under who else’s watch could my own mind be aware of its own thoughts? Where else but in peace could I come to peace?

Two years I spent in prison. Two years of chatter in my ears, piercing my skull. Two years of pointless, meaningless tasks being thrown before me, their bearers’ twisted smiles and icy commands. Two years of education. Educating me for what? It was my life that I paid to attend that school. No money can repay me for two years of my life. In a place where the stars do not shine in the night. Because nobody sleeps when there’s work to be done.

I did not sleep, but I breathed deeply in the air. Until early in the morning when the train arrived. Too brief a trip. Strangers stirred and opened their eyes. They grabbed their bags and made their ways. I sat and watched until most were gone. When I saw the conductor walking down the aisle, shaking awake those still asleep, I gathered my bags and stepped off onto the platform.

Blaring lamplight greeted my eyes. “Sorry,” I heard as someone bumped into my shoulder from behind. Footsteps echoed on the cobblestone. City lights shone in the distance. One thought ran through my mind, taking over the sense of peace: Where am I? I asked myself. Had I not just left the city? The realization washed me with disappointment. Home is nothing more than a somewhere else.

“Can I help you?” a voice called from behind. I turned around to see an attendant looking at me. 

“No,” I answered. Though I surely looked like someone in need of assistance.

“Are you alright?” he asked, clearly not satisfied with my answer.

“No,” I said again. He blinked, confused, and I walked off to exit the station.

An army of taxis was lined up by the curb. The streetlights illuminated patrolling drivers: “Need a taxi?” they asked anyone and everyone. There was a peculiarity to the way the light fell on the scene. Like watching a performance on a stage, I stood back in the darkness to observe their dance. I couldn’t help but wonder what their hopes were, this expression of futility, that their lives would culminate in asking strangers to sit in a taxi in the early morning hours. In its own way, it was beautiful. Perhaps it was the lighting — the atmosphere — or perhaps it was the detachment I felt; I would never take a taxi. And if I wanted one, I would be the one to ask the driver.

So I checked the street sign and carried onwards. The bustle of the station faded away. More lamps lit the pavement, leading me past the windows of locked stores and restaurants. I saw plants and displays, signs and advertisements. The occasional stranger walking quickly down the other side of the road. The occasional car driving past, reminding me that I can never truly be alone.

I walked for another hour until the distant sounds of people talking drew my attention back into the world. I looked down the empty street before me. I looked down the street to my right, where the sound was coming from. The pull of aimless curiosity brought me to follow the noise. And there, a short distance away, was a window, lit from the inside. And outside, two people engaged in conversation. Slowing my pace, I walked by on the opposite sidewalk. I read the name, “Vita Nostra,” as I came close enough to make out the words of the conversation.

“Why did she have to do it now of all times?” said the girl in frustration.

“It’s no big deal, just go take care of it and we’ll come back another time,” said the guy.

“I haven’t had time in a week though,” she replied with a sigh.

A pause took over the conversation. The guy clearly didn’t know what to say. The girl was clearly tired of something. “Another time, then,” he said at last. They hugged and she hurried off down the street. He went back to the door, opening it, briefly filling the air with sounds of chatter, laughter, and music. The door closed behind him and silence resumed. Up ahead, the girl disappeared around a corner.

I walked a little farther past this strange place before crossing to the other side of the street. I turned around and headed back. As I neared the lit window, I heard those same sounds again, faint from behind the glass. Finally near enough, I looked inside while passing. People dancing. People sitting around tables, talking. Music playing. Colorful lights. Everyone moving in some way or another. I looked again to the people dancing. A strange feeling of distance overtook me. I wondered what brought them there, that at such an hour on such a day, they would be here, to dance of all things. And how strange it was that in this quiet, empty place was a small home to people who must all be of some similar type.

Without any desire to go in, I resumed my original pace. Back to the proper path, I continued. After a time that was all too short, a familiar building stood before me. Seeing the gray facade and that tattered door brought days long past to the front of my mind. In the darkness, I saw the door as it was in daylight. A place part of me had hoped to never again return. I opened it and stepped inside. On the right was the list of numbers. By number 317, I pressed the buzzer.

There was no need to talk, the inner door unlocked immediately. Pushing through, I went up the stairs. Slowly. It was quiet other than my steps. It was dark other than the streetlamps spilling through the windows. I rested at the third floor entrance. My head was spinning with thoughts and emotions. I didn’t want to be home. I wanted to be back at Vita Nostra, observing those people, making sense of their motives and intentions: trying to understand what could make anyone want to dance. Trying to understand why I didn’t want to.

But instead, I went through and walked down the hall. To apartment number 317. I didn’t need to knock. The door opened to her joyous face. A face that seemed to have aged immensely in but the two years I was away. A face whose joy brought me sadness. Because I didn’t want to be home. I would rather be off on some adventure. I would rather be back on the train, riding through the starry forest. I would rather be anywhere else, and no feeling of guilt could have been worse.

“You’re home!” she exclaimed, embracing me. From over her shoulder, I looked into the apartment. I was greeted by visions of childhood. She released me and stepped back, hands still on my shoulders, taking me in with joy.

I looked into her smiling eyes and feigned a smile of my own. I set down my bags and hugged her again, hearing words of how much she missed me. Yet the only thought that crossed my mind was how is it that I ended up here and not behind a lit window? How could this place not bring me the same joy? Would someone, some day, teach me how to dance? — and if so, for what reason they ever would.