This is an original and unpublished short fiction story by Cliff Hansen. (C) 2024.

Stephanie said she was made of music. “How is that possible?” I asked her, explaining how the elements in our bodies are actually the remains of exploded stars. She said that was exactly what she was talking about. I did not understand, but when she added that she thought I was cute when I talked nerdy to her, I decided to not push the issue.

Upon reflection, maybe she was right about being made of music, figuratively speaking at least. Her dancing did sometimes resemble the excited ions comprising a solar prominence. But, if we are to think metaphorically, it is water, not fire that she more accurately resembled. She sailed within its flow whereas I have always been a rigid seawall. She was at once predictable and yet chaotic. Benoit Mandelbrot would have understood my fascination with the fractal nuances of her rhythm. Everything beautiful made her want to dance, and when she had difficult days, she would dance and the stress would just evaporate. She never even needed music; she moved freely to private sounds in her imagination as if something was possessing her. She was beautiful.

As our relationship progressed, she tried to teach me to dance. Dancing was important to her, and she wanted me to share in it. I wanted to as well, and made a serious effort, but desire does not always equate to success. We went to clubs, but the music was loud and uncomfortable to me. I had heard it said before that dancing is something shared by every human, but if that is so and those movements are alien to me, am I not human? To be honest, alien is how I often feel. People also say that there is a direct correlation between one’s performance on the dancefloor with their performance in bed. That seems like comparing apples with oranges to me, but I never bothered to ask Stephanie if she found truth in that comparison.

When Stephanie asked if this was the first time I danced, I uncomfortably described my first school dance in middle school. A shy child, I had been secretly in love with a fellow student named Daphne and thought the dance would be a fantastic opportunity to express my feelings to her. But when I got to the multipurpose room, the other kids were already dancing. They were laughing and having fun. Everyone danced so naturally, but I did not know where they learned how to do that. Had they been taught how to dance in some school class I had missed? I was fairly certain that they were just learning as they went, and if they could do that, perhaps I could as well? I reckoned that infants are not born speaking, nor are they given an instruction manual, but most have the instinctive ability to acquire speech. Perhaps if I just went onto the dance floor, I would be able to dance as normally as everyone else who had seemingly just picked it up.

So when no one was dancing with Daphne, I found some confidence and I asked if she wanted to dance with me. I had prepared answers for a dozen different rejections, but stuttered for a reply when she smiled affectionately and said “yes”. To put my arms around her was the greatest thrill I had ever had in my life. And then everything crashed. Daphne said I had two left feet, and said I kept tripping over myself. She said I needed to just relax and be myself, but perhaps being myself was the problem. If I was someone else I could just do it the way babies apparently can. We stopped the dance before the song was over. Daphne went back to her friends where I heard laughing and I ran to the bathroom to hide. My feelings were now nothing but shame, and occasionally it seemed like she wanted to talk to me, but I never gave her the opportunity to mock and always fled in the opposite direction.

I realized that though dancing seemed to come naturally to everyone, it must have been a highly choreographed procedure. I spent my childhood evenings after school doing homework, assembling scale models of sci-fi starships, and reading. My parents had really failed, and they should have been providing me with the hours of nightly dance instruction every other kid must have received to gain this level of skill. Having never had an instruction in my life, I was now thirteen years behind everyone else and it would be unlikely I could learn quickly enough to catch up in time for my high school prom, an event which I simply skipped.

Hearing my theory, Stephanie said that no, I was right the first time. Most people just know how to dance the way they eat or breathe. This was not reassuring to me, because it emphasized the idea that I was not a person, and I wondered how many other simple instinctual things others were doing that I had no idea about. Stephanie said I just needed to practice more and eventually I would find my sense of rhythm.

In the clubs, I felt like that middle school child once again, wondering where everyone had learned their moves and why I had not. The dances now were much more sexual than they had been in high school, and fleeing shamefully to the bathroom was replaced with drinking as much alcohol as I could afford. By drinking, I could pretend I was doing something to have fun. I could pretend that I wanted to be there. Really, I just wanted to be wherever Stephanie was.

Sometimes I thought about a magpie I had helped as a teenager. It had a hurt wing, and I cared for it. Eventually, the bird healed up but never really left. It would bring me little trinkets such as acorns or bits of string, leaving them on my doorstep to find. If I was walking outside, it would hop along or fly behind me, following. I thought it was cute, but I began to wonder if I was like that bird following Stephanie. One day the bird just never returned. I knew without a doubt that Stephanie brought happiness to my life, but I suspected that if I were to fly away, she could find someone who was able to make her happier than I could. I felt selfish to hold on to her, but I needed her.

There was much more to our relationship than just dancing. We shared many interests such as hiking and looking at the stars. But dances were just an essential part of Stephanie’s life and I each dance reminded me that there was as much of a gulf between Stephanie and me as there had been between me and that magpie. But from freshman to junior year I kept trying, with each dance an agony. Once I tried to mock a man who was moving particularly ecstatically on the dance floor, I mimicked the movements I thought made him look stupid, and Stephanie looked happier than I had ever seen her and said “now you’re getting it!” but she looked equally sad when it became clear I was not sincere.

We would often fight after going to the clubs because I was so miserable. She wanted to relax through dance and have fun. She begged me to do the same. But how could I relax when I had no idea why one should move right, or wave their arms, or wiggle their hips when they did. How could I have fun  when other men and women who knew how to dance were grinding up against Stephanie and she was having more fun with them than she had with me? Unfailingly, I became bored and grumpy but yet I honestly would have given anything to be on the dance floor with that beautiful woman if I knew how. It was not a lack of motivation, it was a lack of understanding. I tried to get Stepanie to tell me what moves to make and when so I could memorize them, but she said that if there was an instruction manual, it would not be dancing. Dancing, she explained, was an art, not a science, it was about your relationship with the music. My relationship with dance music was that I thought it was loud and frustrating, and I wanted to be away from it. I knew that any day now she would leave me for one of the people who knew how to move instinctively the way she wanted to. She danced to relax, and my response to it was a source of stress. I suspected the only reason she remained with me was the sunk cost fallacy.

Jake lived in our dorm and he frustrated me. He was far too handsome than any man should ever be. Stephanie laughed a lot when he was around, and next to her, Jake might have been the best dancer I have seen in my life. Like Stephanie, he would take any opportunity he could to move and the two of them looked like two streams of water when they danced together. Knowing jealousy is the killer of many relationships, I did my absolute best to not be jealous, but how could I not be when he was so perfect. Tall, dark, hilarious, and handsome, he was everything Stephanie wanted in a guy. The man could cook, and he could dance. I would catch myself off guard enjoying his company before I would remember to be jealous and start distancing myself. I had always suspected Stephanie would find someone better than me, and now that possibility had a name: Jake.

Jake wanted to take Stephanie out dancing for her birthday. This was the worst news possible. I had wanted to surprise her for dinner, but was too insecure to say anything when she told me we were going out for her birthday. Since dances often resulted in fights and I felt like the topic was beginning to cause us to start to drift apart, I decided to not go with them to the dance. I could see Stephanie was hurt, but I did not want to fight with her on her birthday. I wanted her to have fun, even if it was not going to be with me. I encouraged her to have a great time and I made her one of her favorite meals before she went out.

I got very drunk that night, assuming that would be the night she left me for Jake. I was absolutely miserable, but I would not fight it. I loved her, and I understood just how important dancing was to her. Jake could provide that for her, I would do my best to be happy for her. She was quite drunk when she got back to the dorm, but came to my room not hers. I had prepared for her leaving me, and yet she wanted to sleep with me. As we lay in bed afterward, she told me how much fun she had, but how sad she was that I had not come out with her, especially because it was her birthday. I told her that I thought she would be happier without me there, and a sad and kind of lonely expression passed her face.

Stephanie and I stayed together, but I felt her getting even more distant over the next several months. Jake was a growing presence in both of our lives but I never minded it so much because I learned that he was actually engaged, and to a guy. I felt like I had dodged a bullet and eagerly encouraged him and Stephanie to spend time together now. The jealousy I had felt for Jake was not gone, it was just on a sabbatical and I knew it would only be a matter of time before a new straight Jake entered Stephanie’s life and that would be the end of us. But it was nice to relax and let my jealousy for him die. Since I was no longer worried about him hooking up with my girlfriend, I got to know the real Jake, and he was an even better guy than I had first suspected. Jake and I became quite good friends.

I drank a lot during Jake’s wedding knowing that there would be the expectation of a dance. Everyone was so happy and looked so free, and after enough shots, I got the nerve to join Stephanie on the dance floor. Even though she knew I was the worst, she never gave up hope, and always looked happy to be with me. I will never understand. I decided to try something new and copied the movement of the other guys on the dance floor. Something clicked. I could feel my rhythm was off, as Stephanie instinctively moved at different times than my stupid body thought was best, but she saw that I was trying. Maybe it was the whiskey, but after a few songs, I began to be actually able to anticipate the moves the other men would make and then I could reproduce them myself with only a slight delay. I was not dancing exactly to the rhythm but was close enough for Stephanie to work with. While it was pure plagiarism, I was dancing.

When she kissed me, Stephanie’s kiss was different than it had ever been. Better. I had not realized she had been holding back before, but it seemed the dance had improved her hope for our relationship. Usually after a wedding dance she would be upset that I was not having fun because I was so stressed about the dance, jealous of the people able to have fun and giving her attention, or obscenely drunk because of the above. But this time, she was happy with me. I felt guilty because the dance had not been mine. I had counterfeited the dance from other people, I still had no idea how to dance. But she told me to shut up, and thanked me for trying. When we returned to our hotel room I found that kisses were not the only category of passion she had been holding back in.

Watching Stephanie sleep, she seemed so happy. While I certainly had not had fun at Jake’s wedding, she had and that was the point. More importantly, I had entered the dance floor, survived, and we had left the event without fighting over my inability to move the way others could naturally. Maybe I would never be able to dance on my own, but if I learned to copy people fast enough, maybe no one would be able to tell the difference. Perhaps I could even learn to memorize their movements and figure out the timing and then no one would know the difference. It felt like a new day was upon me.

The actual next day my hope faded because Stephanie had found something. The doctor soon confirmed the worst. Things happened quickly; life was a blur. There was a mastectomy, there was a lot of chemo. It felt like a jump scare in a movie where things went from great to terrifying with no transition. There were many tears. Throughout it all, Stephanie remained that beautiful optimistic woman I had fallen in love with. I might not know the first thing about rhythm or dancing, but I do know how to care for someone I love, and I did everything I could to give her whatever moments of happiness I could.

Stephanie was not getting better and I spent all the time with her that I could. But one night, there in the hospital, she said it would make her happy if I would dance for her. I told her I could not. Without someone to copy, I did not know how. She told me it was okay, looked the other way, and said she was sleepy. I knew it was not okay. I felt so small. I felt impotent. I remembered how happy she had looked when I had danced that counterfeit dance with her at our friend’s wedding. I remembered how much passion she had added to her kiss when she saw the effort I was putting in. She loved me in spite of my inability to dance and I wanted to return that love by dancing for her. If I could get into her body and kill the cancer cells that were killing her, I would have done it, but that was not in my ability, and dancing seemed just as unlikely and difficult. But she was so weak, so fragile, there was so little spark left in her eyes. If I could figure out how to dance once, just one real honest to god dance, maybe it would make a difference. And if there was the chance of making even the smallest difference in her life, it was worth any effort for Stephanie.

So I enlisted the help of Jake. I told him I would pay him anything. When I explained the situation, he said he would accept no payment except that I would do my absolute best to give a sincere dance for Stephanie. At first my friend was confused as Stephanie had been by my inability to do what came naturally to them, but like her, he recognized the effort I was putting in. He taught me about the mathematics of musical rhythm and how to anticipate what would come next. I learned about different types of dancing and its fascinating global history. To some people dance was exercise, to others it was art, to others it was a revolutionary activity. I suspect that to Stephanie it was all of the above.

Like Stephanie, Jake also was unable to tell me how to move and when, but he was able to break down a few options. He taught me how to tap out a beat with my foot. Stephanie has always been an artist, but like me, Jake was a computer guy. He explained how I could treat a song as if it were a computer code, and whenever there was a beat, I would move in one of any interchangeable predefined ways from a list of motions he had taught me. By mixing them up from time to time, it would appear random. Stephanie had said that if there were instructions it was not a real dance, but this was the best I could do, and Jake stressed that sincerity is what mattered the most. He showed me videos of what he called bad dancers, who were having fun and no one cared how bad their dancing was. For my part, I never saw what qualified them as bad dancers since their movements looked exactly the same as anyone else’s but I trusted Jake.

I wish I understood cancer more. Why it does not touch some people and yet devastates others. Stephanie was a healthy vegetarian, she exercised and danced daily. She was the most optimistic and happy person I have ever met with an enviable blood pressure and no known family history of cancer. I will never understand why chemo works so well for some people but was not working for her.

I had stopped going to college and spent my days in the hospital at Stephanie’s side, slipping out each day to secretly practice my dance with Jake. He said I had learned all I needed to and should dance for Stephanie sooner than later, but it felt so programmed, so insincerely. I do not know why it was so important to me. I knew that one dance would never do anything to save her life or to extend it. I just knew that it would bring her a moment’s happiness and I would very literally do anything to put a smile on her face. I knew what Stephanie wanted was not a dance from me, it was for the dance to be real, and I just did not think that was possible. Jake tried to reassure me that I had come far, but that his opinion never mattered, I needed to dance for Stephanie, and I needed to do it soon.

But the cancer moved faster than my feet. One day I had all the time in the world and then the next day none at all. Stephanie was gone and there was nothing I could do. That one fucking thing I could have done to put a smile on her face, something any human on the planet could have done instinctively and without thinking, but I was unable to. And now, despite my best efforts at learning, I would never have the chance to do.

While I had often succumbed to stupid petty jealousy, it was always out of fear of losing the best person in my life. I had never once failed to recognize just how important Stephanie was to me, and I had always known just how empty my life would be without her—the emptiness I feel now. I know the joy that she contributed to my life, but I often wonder what I contributed to hers. I saw the looks of all the men and women falling in love with her moves on the dance floor. She could have had any of them and yet she always went home with me, my stupid ignorant inability to dance and all. Though I will never understand her, but I will always be grateful.

The attendees at her funeral were less numerous than they ought to have been. Her divorced mother and father were there, both drunk and arguing with each other. Neither of them liked, me, so I kept my conversation with them at a minimum. How could someone as wonderful and joyous as Stephanie have so few people show up? Jake and I were the last ones there, and I struggled to leave, knowing that this was a threshold to a life without her and I refused to go through that door.

Jake said it was time for him to leave, but there was something that I needed to do before I could go. He reminded me that his dance lessons had not come free. He had made a deal with me that I would do my best to give a sincere dance for Stephanie. He said the fact that she was now interred in a grave at my feet did nothing to void our agreement. And then he left.

I was alone with her grave. The tears started again, but I began to imagine Stephanie. I imagined I was holding her and I imagined that I could hear her singing. I imagined the music that had made her had now transferred into me. It was a stupid thought.

But then I fucking danced.

The end.

Stephanie’s Dance by Cliff Hansen is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0