Random Scribbles · writing

Dancer

MFtS

Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham at MFtS
Photo courtesy of Barbara W. Beacham at MFtS


She lived a life that some would describe as being on edge. She wouldn’t have had it any other way. The long grey car nosed to the curb in front of the theatre. ‘The Spirit of Ecstasy’ leaning forward, in anxious anticipation, atop the grill.

She spotted the ticket taker hurrying out to her car and spun on the seat, unfolding her long, lean legs as she stood, and then looked downward to check the way her white silk gown hung and clung.

Smiling, “Thanks, Teddy,” to the doorman, “See ya later, Arthur,” to her driver.

Breezing through the ornate brass of the entry, and past the show-bill with her picture, she shook the nickels she clutched in her right hand and slid them back and forth between her thumb and index finger. She remembered when she had told her daddy that she was going to be a dancer. He’d told her that she would never have two nickels to rub together.