Final Pirouette

I always sit alone. Night after night while friendly conversation buzzes all around, I scribble away at my pad. Like the severed lobe of a lobotomized brain my quietness keeps me apart from the surrounding barroom. Not that they don’t try. Their electrical impulses probe with questions and icebreakers, smiles and shoulder taps. But all I return is a blank stare, as is our way, while many muse over why I don’t respond. Over time I am accepted as just another quirky bar regular. And in so doing, they give me a name. They dub me the Human Chair, she who sits but never responds. One night, a new mind enters the room. Dylan. I sense something different in him. Then disquieting sounds fill the air. Unlike any I have heard. Dylan approaches and asks me to what ways humans call, "Dance." I try to remain detached and ignore him but the sounds provoke strange sensations in this form I have taken. I am unable to stay still. For several nights I fight the emotions by taking notes. For the first time, I lie to my superiors during the Sharing, omitting that I joined the dance. One night I can't fight it any longer. The pull of music and Dylan's hands through my hair are too much. And as we dance we become one. Sharing our synaptic joy until it spills into the streets like a beacon.