wulidtu
“You look like you’ve eaten the sun,
like you drank so much sunlight
you’re drowning in it. ”
My hair snaps as I brush it with a flat comb. The tips are so dry I hear the crinkle, like dried leaves rubbed between a finger and thumb. I got lost on the path to the Danse performance, and my wooden heels clopped hastily in the puddles. I arrived sprinkled with light rain. One woman from the contemporary class was outside the door finishing a cigarette. I recognized her tight curls. She wore loose silk pants and a backless top with a satchel slung over one shoulder.
We kiss twice in Morocco, one for each cheek! She glittered. I’m finishing this, see you inside.
I purchased a ticket from the small window where a man wrote notes in a bound black book and lined the coins up along the counter. There was no toilet paper in the washroom. A row of sixteen students sat in front of me, kids aged eight to fifteen who stood and shouted and cheered throughout the show. I admired their cacophonic support. A woman across the aisle tried to shush them several times. The photographer came by and shook each of their hands. The man beside me pointed at their row and shouted Problem! Problem!
The dancers moved between smoke under red lights on roller skates with party hats and blankets. Seven performers, seven choreographies, ninety minutes. Too many people took out their phones during the show. Just as many stood and snapped their fingers when the curtains fell. As I walked home, street lights bounced on the streets, and a little black cat followed me until I arrived at my doorstep.
I rubbed its forehead twice. Two kisses for Morocco.
Photo source.
