dancer / 1


The inside of the taxi is simple—rain sliding across the windows, tires humming against wet asphalt, a blurred world shifting beyond the glass.

I tug at the peeling leather seats and watch as the driver, tall and quiet, switches on the radio and sways to the music. Her close-cut hair swishes around her face as she takes a sharp turn and my head collides with the edge of the window.

“So, this is music?” I say conversationally, rubbing my forehead. She gives me a confused look and reaches for the volume dial. “Sorry, would you prefer something quieter?”

I shake my head. “No, it’s… tell me, why do you sway like that?”

She laughs lightly, visibly uncomfortable. “I know, I know, I’m no dancer.”

“Dancer,” I say slowly, hesitating before pulling out my notebook. “What’s a dancer?”


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