I’ll admit that the singers were good, but there was one event of the festival night that I looked forward to most, and it was the one that outshone all the others – even the singers – with spectacles of sparkling melodies and outstanding vivacity. It was the dance of the seasons, and it was the only thing in this universe that could fill me with emotions like this – telling of love and joy, dreams and patience, anger and despair, hatred and wrath. It was a story that left me standing alone as the flames of the night lingered on and the festival breathed more and more light into their hearts.
The dance began with a single woman, standing as alone as I was, on a grand stage of the most immaculate rainbow of colours. Oh, the colours – fierce reds, gentle blues, innocent pinks, violet purples, crimson greens, florescent oranges and passionate yellows – all expressed through burning flames behind her, dancing to the song of the gentle wind as if they were begging her to begin.
She was perhaps the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life, with skin as fair as morning snow, hair that flowed like a gentle river, and eyes that engulfed the colours of the festival like a grand and beautiful mirror. Her dress was the ceremonial red that remembered the blood spilt for this country, and like her, it flowed through the air with the grace of a feather.
Then the other women soon joined the dance, dressed in colours that reflected the seven flames in a style that was so perfect I felt tears welling up in my eyes. The dance slowly began to accelerate as the music grew louder and the moves became faster. The women became a single moving body that sailed across the stage – jumping and stepping and swaying to the roaring beat that was subtle, and yet ferocious. But then, before I could draw my next breath, it was over, and in a flash of ribbons and colours the women disappeared without a trace – only the rising of the applause to prove their existence.
My date touched me on the shoulder and I was pulled back into the world.
“Hey, I’m pretty hungry,” he said, smiling – and I’m assuming he noticed the tear roll down my cheek. “Would you like to get something to eat?”
I smiled back at him, realising myself how hungry I was. “Yes,” I replied. “I’d love to.”
I showed him where to find a nice little diner that I liked – it was the place where I ate most of my meals, seeing as I was never home very often. I could recall the entire menu backwards from memory, and I knew the names – and stories – of most of the staff. For instance, there was Tom, the tacky blonde with a nice smile but who was so clumsy that he had dropped more plates than people he served. And then there was Mary who, remarkably, was exactly the same age as I was. Because Mary and I shared the same birthday we’d always meet at the diner on the morning of October the sixteenth to share a giant pancake stack with extra applesauce. Mary was actually a very good friend of mine, which was strange seeing as I didn’t have many friends. Of course, she was absolutely nothing like me – she wanted to be a singer, and I never mentioned I was doubtful that she’d succeed.
As for my date, well, at least he was a gentleman. He opened the door for me and we found a table near the jukebox that played a fast and joyous little tune. I found him, for the most part, incredibly uninteresting. His hair was too neat. I was thinking that he was most certainly the politician’s son. I doubt he’d have picked up that smile from a military father. Either way I intended to be done with him as soon as he had paid for my meal. I might have been able to tell my father that he had no respect for women and that he hurt my feelings – my father probably suspected that I was lying but at least I had graced him with an excuse.
That was a terribly bad habit of mine, and it was probably reason why I had never had a boyfriend. Yes, I was seventeen and I had never had a boyfriend – a pretty girl like me. I had kissed plenty of potentials, just to see what all the fuss was about, but the fault and the problem was all mine. They couldn’t handle me, you see. I was the kind of girl who liked to play with my food before I ate, and not many boys made it past the playing stage. I wanted someone who could not only survive my dashing personality, but also challenge and complement it. I needed a playmate, someone to verse me in a game of chess every now and then, or laugh with me while we pulled pranks on all those people we didn’t like. I wanted someone to share my silence. That’s the stupid thing about me: I loved being alone but I hated being lonely.
Anyway, after we ordered our meals – I almost always went with a hamburger and hot sauce, unless it was a Thursday in which case the pasta was half price – we sat there at our table and he watched me in a snobbishly inquisitive way, and I dreaded that would try to make small-talk, or get to know me. If I had actually told him more about myself he would have been disappointed, or frightened.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he said, over the jingling melody of the jukebox.
I tried to giggle, but all I could think was: pay the check already! But still, I’d have my fun soon enough. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said gently. “I often get so captivated by the festival, I guess I just forget to talk.”
“Well that’s alright. So, Jeanette, why don’t you tell me about yourself? What do you do for a living?”
Finally, I spotted Tom walking over with our food – that burger looked delicious – but better yet, I could finally convince this guy to leave. Time to play with my food.
“Well, if you insist,” I said, hopefully pulling off a wicked smile. “You see, I work as a sort of courier, for the resistance.
I watched as he took a bite of his meal and then choked on it. “The… the resistance?”
“That’s right. You met my father, right? John Abigail?” I saw his face turn pale and I had to hold back an evil laugh. “Yes, my father is most serious about these things. Now, might I ask you a question?” I continued anyway. “Is your father in politics or the military? I’m still not quite certain.”
“He… uh… military.”
I smiled, believing that I had perfected pulling off that wicked smile. “Oh good, well might I recommend that you refrain from telling him about this date. I’m sure he’d be devastated to learn that you were dating the daughter of a resistance official, Benson’s right-hand-man. My father is a very dangerous man, you know.”
He looked at me with an expression sitting somewhere between astonishment and terror, and I maintained my wicked smirk.
“If you’d please excuse me,” he stuttered. “I’m afraid I must leave…” As he made his way out he stumbled into poor Tom and a tray of fries and drinks splattered chaotically across the ground.
“I’m so sorry,” uttered Tom, obviously believing that he was at fault. My date ran out the door, and I never saw the handsome young man again. And good riddance to him.
Once again I sat at the table alone, eating my scrumptious hamburger with hot sauce while listening to a woman sing jazz over the jukebox and an accompaniment of tingling glass as Tom swept up the mess he had made. This was how my night was supposed to be – terribly loud, and yet quiet all the same.
So I peacefully finished my meal before bidding farewell to all of my diner friends and then stepping back out into the audacious universe of lights and festivities. I closed my eyes as I felt the warm city air brush against my face and I breathed it all in – the music, the foods, the people, the lights and the colours. Oh, how I loved the festival.
I had made the very most of my final blissful hour at the festival because I knew very well that, as with all objects of wonderment, I would soon have to put an end to my time here – it was sad but necessary. I wanted to get a few extra jobs done tonight in order to make up for scaring away my date. Either way, I wouldn’t be missing out on much. The festival was spread throughout most of the city.
ns 172.70.178.90da2