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A whirl of red and stamping feet, the onlookers clap in steady beats, the music strumms in fast determined chords, and the red of the dancers whirls and flings itself across the floor as the feet move faster than the clappers can clap. A drama of flourished pounding heels, sharp and loud against the wooden floor, they pause breathlessly with outstretched leg, a flash of flesh. She watches them from the side at the back of the gallery where they dance to the brushstrokes of Picasso. Standing at the back her feet pick up the rhythym, her arms almost still beside her, but they too soon feel the creeping sensations of whirling arms that fling through the air as the feet fly. A quick glance assures her that no one in the audience is watching her, their gaze transfixed on the proper dancers, but she stamps a little closer to the wall nonetheless. She dances in furious beating taps at small intervals when leaving, across the gallery floor, and down the steps, and out onto the pavement. She dances next to the fountain spewing forth its rhythmic water patterns. A bride approaches for her photos by the fountain, but she has already danced on. She dances down to the train station, and just a little on the platform but her breath is swallowed up and she sits with tired feet on the train journey home. When she rises to depart at her station, her energy renewed, she lets her feet pound quickly and her arms fling with rhythm to her stamping. Her friend nudges her to stop disturbing the train and the guy next to her smiles and says 'We don't mind', but she is too shy to reply and blushes with embrassment as she gets off the train. She's never been noticed before you see.
