The Marionettist
Helen Liu
She approaches you one night with hopeful arms, tentative steps, tired eyes that still glimmer with untainted innocence. Notice how she shivers slightly, how something about the way she holds herself betrays her loneliness, her want. You smile back, allow her to throw herself into your arms, stretch your fingertips over her back.
How lovely.
Taking her cold hand, you pull her inside. Whispering reassurances, you sit her in front of your crackling fireplace, bundle her in fluffy blankets, wrap woolen scarves around her neck until her shivering gives way to drooping eyelids and soft sighs. A cup of hot cocoa is offered, followed by a tray of cookies, butter still bubbling at their edges. Chocolate dots the corner of her lip as she falls asleep; with a careful thumb, you smear it away. You make sure she wakes to the soothing smell of coffee, a healthy flush to her cheeks and eyes alight. You murmur a good morning, tell her she may go if she must but she’s welcome to stay as long as she wants. It’s still snowing outside; after a period of waffling, she decides to stay.
Of course, you say, and unlock her door.
Later that day, as you two eat dinner, you tell her of your passion for dance. Its beauty, its elegance, your satisfaction when every movement falls in time with the beat. How you used to dance everyday, but nowadays you no longer have the energy. Eagerly, she says she dances too, says she loves it just as much as you do. You put on music and she becomes a work of art, fluid yet sharp, timid yet daring, emotion in every line of her body. When she’s done, you clap appreciatively, saying she’s the best you’ve ever seen. Adamantly, she denies 37
