Cynthia dropped an odd pearl this evening. “Have you ever wanted to remove your skin and just dance around in your bones, Liz?” For that rare instance, there was a hint of glee in her voice. It was like she had been holding onto that one for a while and was downright fiending to let it out. Then she laughed a deep laugh, the kind I’d never heard from her before.
“Uh, no, not really,” I answered. “Kinda need my skin to live, y’know?”
“Oh, don’t be silly. Here, let me show you.”
And with a wave of her hand, I was buck-naked, right down to my crisp, shiny bones. I was weightless, or at least I had no sensation of weight. Strange as it was, it was also quite freeing.
“Come. We dance!” Cynthia beckoned me closer, offering me her frail fingers.
I found myself in her cold embrace, like so many nights before. Cynthia’s touch was expectedly brittle and altogether chilling, yet I was swooning in my nightmares for more of her. We shared an elegant waltz, a rambunctious blitz, and a soothing slow dance, all in the same small shred of time. It was the sweetest closure to a painful day. Just me and my midnight muse.