The room is bare and still, waiting for a life to saturate it with character--perhaps pictures marring the perfect blankness of the walls, or maybe clothes and shoes strewn haphazardly on the wooden floor. But no books crease the folded bedsheets, and dust decides to linger in the corners.
She enters, carrying nothing in her hands but a music player. The door is locked. Gauzy white curtains shield the room from the world. It's safe to begin.
A button is pressed, and music soars into the room. The room gasps and spins. A pirouette, a leap, a moonwalk and suddenly it no longer staid green-and-white.
It is in the arms of a gallant Spaniard with fire in his fine dark eyes as they samba through the night.
It is fighting red-coated men, armed with only a cutlass and a heart of valor.
It is dressed to the nines, swinging and boogieing amongst country-club peers.
It is slowly shedding its skin, lace and leather and string, feeding on the excitement of lonely, hungry eyes.
The music stops.
She wipes the sweat off her brow and looks about the room with a wistful kind of sadness. The door thuds closed behind her, and it is ivory and mint once more.
The room is bare and still.
Monday, October 30, 2006
The Workout
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