A Dance of Time

They face like fighters in a ring, muscles taunt and eyes wary as they circle. A man and a woman, the age old couple. It's a dance of power, a dance of passion. One moves. A testing, almost lazy attempt at it's prey – easily dodged. They're only focused on each other. They move again, en sync, matched in these easy moments of playful swipes at each other.

Then the feeling changes, almost tangible. A challenge. He moves, a powerful, graceful move of muscles, grabbing for her. She moves, so that he only has her arm, not all of her. She can almost feel the annoyance radiating off of him like heat. In a way, it is heat, the heat of two bodies beginning to entwine in something brazenly primal.

They continue to circle, the woman leaning away, nearly all her weight supported by his strength alone. He could drop her at any moment, but it is a silent, secure knowledge – he would not drop her. He lunges again, their eyes locked on each other as he pulls her arm, his free hand reaching, grasping her other arm. His fingers are like steel – so strong their hold on her wrist. The struggle to be free begins. The real fight has started.

Her anger and her instincts guide her as she moves with mounting aggression. She uses her weight, her flexibility, and her knowledge to her advantage. Her wrist slips free and she turns, but that doesn't stop him. He's used to her tricks, knows them, and knows how to work with them or around them. He catches her, changes his grip, and forces her to cross her arms in front of her. But it isn't over.

It's never over.

She squirms, not giving up, looking for a weakness. Her nails look for flesh, finds it, but he only laughs. She throws her weight against his arms, forcing him to support her or let her go, but he pulls her arms tighter, pulls her closer against him. Supporting her.

He keeps his feet from hers. He keeps his weaknesses from her. They pause, more of her wanting to than his, as he waits, his hands still hard, almost bruising. He doesn't loosen, doesn't move, just waits with infinite patience. She'll start when she's ready again. She'll do it when she thinks he's not paying attention. Or she'll give up, try again. But for now, she stays there, cradled in the shelter of his body. It's simple. It's beautiful. It's unchoreographed. A lull in the storm. And for the moment, it's perfect.

He lets her go, mutual silent consent. They face each other again, her turning on the balls of her feet, pure grace. She takes a few steps back and they lock eyes. They start again. A little circuit of power and passion. Their moves as easy and as agile as if they were water. Man and woman. Woman and man. The primal dance of time

~2006