tide dancing

Bernice was not very good with small-talk, but she was an exquisite dancer, and a bold one at that. She was so wordless that the other dancers in the company referred to her as "Silent Night." Her life had been consumed with the art, and this passion had left little room for love. And that was fine with Bernice. For a while. When love did touch her, it was in the form of a fit and sensitive man who was one of the modern dance choreographers that occasionally worked with the company. She was in her early thirties, an age when she knew intuitively that her career as a professional ballerina was coming to a close. She had room to let him in now, but she had no language to express it. She was effectively mute.
But she was an exquisitely creative and fearless dancer. Not knowing why, yet trusting the playfulness of her body, she heard her muscles call out to her, "Tap," they said, "Tap this man your feelings. Show him your rhythm and grace and fearlessness. Show him who you are, how you feel."
She studied secretly for a month with a young man in Harlem. Her muscles rebelled, but her soul embraced it - the percussion, the timing, the athleticism.
One afternoon, following a long rehearsal, she haltingly asked if she could share something with him. The words came out in breathless little bursts.
He looked at her curiously, and simply said, "Sure."
She pulled off her slippers and reached into her backpack for the tap shoes. He watched and began to smile at this incongruous site.
Then she backed away, glanced into his eyes, and began to speak.