The Late Americans

by Brandon Taylor

The dancers had an aloof, feral quality to them, like coyotes in a zoo. Their shoes squeaked on the floor as they leveraged themselves forward and through the air. Loose screws rattled, and the mirrors shook as the dancers landed. They didn’t notice him, or look toward him. They were always apart from him, apart from one another too, even though they were squeezed together in rows, formations coming together and then undone. Goran hated the repetition. He called it pretentious scales, that’s all it is. They want me to go in and play them a fucking waltz and then walk out. That’s it. Timo himself hadn’t minded that so much at the time, when he played. It had been a way to absent himself. But that was over now.