We dance, our hands drawing apart and then intertwining. Narciso’s fingers are warm as sun-touched bark. We dance, our brown arms grazing each other’s waists and shoulders. We move so quickly that my fingers touch his neck. My lips brush his unmasked jaw, and he shudders in a way so slight, only I perceive it. We dance, striking our heels with more certainty than the languorous fairies. We beat out each step of this dance, making it so hard and insistent, it is our own, instead of the flitting thing the court has made it. We dance, with such force the ground conveys the rhythm, and the fairies
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