Aflutter
He teaches himself dance theory from books, and, when the others have gone to bed, he turns the lights lower and starts up with practice.
He takes in the black ink of the words and translates it to footsteps and slow, jerky (at first) swings of his arms.
He studies the text and attempts to breathe properly, to inhale the humidity of this small room and exhale the warmth of his body back out. To do so in time with the press and the slide of his bare soles on the carpet. Ignoring the burns and the chafing of the weave at his insteps; at the white, callused flesh of his heels.
He cradles the book, open, in his palms as he spins, as he attempts, gamely, to master the moving of his hips side to side, sensuous, softly.
He closes the book with a slap that sounds like maracas, a little, and throws it down amongst the sofa cushions before attempting what he thinks is flamenco.
A moth is in the room with him. It must have snuck in earlier – covert cousin of the butterfly – when a window was open to temper the heat. Like a glasshouse, a greenhouse this place tonight. Sweat binds his shirt with his flushed pink skin. He stops to catch his breath and lets his eyes follow the rapidfire shake of the visiting wings.
He wonders, if that moth could see instead of simply feeling its way – he wonders, would it be curious, amazed, or amused? He wonders, if that moth became human, would it be impressed with the fruits of his learning?
When he moves again the moth is caught in his orbit, for a second, two seconds, then flutters madly away.
Dan Micklethwaite is writer of short fiction, poetry, and, lately, a prolific producer of (as yet) unpublished novels. Besides IS&T, his work has recently featured in BULL: Men’s Fiction and Birdville. A selection of his work is available at: http://smalltimebooks.blogspot.co.uk/