Letter to the Narcissist – No. 64

We never danced.

Not at a wedding, nor at a stag and doe.
Not at the bar, nor at a dance club.
Not at a rock concert, nor at a party.
We certainly never took dance lessons.
We never danced.

I used to lament that we had never danced.

We never danced.
Not to the titillating tango. Not to a wandering waltz. Definitely not to the passionate paso doble. While you were accomplished at the horizontal mambo (I’ll give you that); that dance is apparently no great feat for your kind.

We never danced.
We never swayed to a slow, lilting love song. Sadly,we never rocked out to a sternum strumming singalong. And we definitely never danced a jig. We never danced.

Ah, but dance me you did.
You danced me around in circles. You danced me in patterns that I could not see – yet somehow I knew innately – you hardly had to lead. That was your one area of expertise. .you chose your dance partner well. And I responded, for somewhere inside me I already knew this dance by rote. Somehow the steps were stamped into my soul. A dance best done with eyes closed shut.

I used to lament that we never danced – that we never had “a song,” that we never danced cheek to cheek, or with arms tightly clasped around each other – we didn’t even dirty dance…

Yet we did dance…a deadly dance indeed. I never realized that we were dancing the whole time.
And then something changed. In your confidence you danced me too far, too hard, or too long – my steps faltered. You saw, but too late. You tried to back me off the dance floor into a corner so far removed no one could even witness. And then you tried to engage me in the same dance. “Talk to me” you would say, but you meant “dance with me.” And I didn’t acquiesce…I faltered; you called me out but it was too late. My dancing shoes had worn out beyond repair…

What did you expect? That we could buy a new pair of shoes for me? How so? When there was nothing left.

And did you think I’d dance down to threads and bloodied toes?

You walked away. You didn’t care.

And when you returned, you simply expected that I’d just be there waiting on the dance floor, with thread-barren shoes, for you to pick up the dance again? Ha.

I had cast off the shoes and ran away, bare toes exposed, tender feet unprotected but free – you didn’t expect that did you?
You didn’t think I had it in me.

So now, in retrospect,  I celebrate the fact that we never danced; a real dance. A true dance. The one area of my life (the one corner of my heart) that you didn’t manage to infiltrate. To taint.

I hear that narcs can fake a lot of things – but we never danced – because you can’t fake rhythm. And I will relish that thought until the end of my days. And I will relish that thought every time I dance, without you