Fragile Remains

The pulse of the drums beat against Tasha’s body, causing her to sway and spin in the midst of the crowd. Eyes closed to the brightly colored lights, she allows her emotions to take control, trying not to think. Her face streaked with black mascara, she is a macabre cartoon.

Tasha feels the occasional brush and bump of bodies as she continues to dance with eyes closed. Words resound through her head, “exhausted all measures” . . . “everything within our power.” And just like that, she’s all alone.

Whirling frantically to the beat, Tasha hears the words of the preacher drumming, “Life. is. a fragile. thing. to be. treasured.”

“Fragile.” Her heart beats in rhythm to the echo.

Ears filled with the rushing thump of her heartbeat, Tasha continues to dance, a dervish now, in the middle of the dance floor. Still feeling the brush of skin against her, Tasha dances.

The brush of skin turns into hands holding her arms. Tasha opens her eyes to see concerned black eyes staring at her.

“Miss? Miss, are you okay? Can you hear me? Miss?”

Finally focusing on the words darting at her, Tasha manages a nod. Looking around, she realizes she is the only person still on the floor. When did the band stop playing?

“Miss?”

“I . . .” Tasha takes in the empty space, shoulders drooping with reality, “remain.”