Dancing and Not Dancing

I haven’t danced in two months. Last night I went out and the music made me all hibbly jibbly inside. I asked a tall dark haired guy if he would dance with me. I didn’t care if he was any good. I was wearing boots and I tripped all over myself. He mostly lead with his mind and I don’t read minds. Today I’m sitting at my desk and pretending I can’t feel my stomach fold on itself. My heart is asleep. When I get up to deliver a package to someone in the building I remember that I’m a person.
I’m at the desk again. Here I am at the desk. Pencil shavings, papers turned over, a highlighted calendar, a dirty mug, a jar of chocolate sauce from Christmas time (unopened), things written and crossed out, a collapsing row of binders with the names of seasons written on them, a mousepad stained with coffee, a theatre advertisement, sticky notes ripped in half, a stapler with my name on it (!), a pink message slip, my quiet phone, a stack of pens with “theatre” flags attached, my hunched shoulders crowded in a brown jacket, the stool beneath my desk that I fold my legs onto, my hair hanging, active chilled mottled hands with fingers bent over the keyboard, mouth stale and tongue flat and dry.  I’m playing music today because my coworker isn’t around. It saves me.