Delia will tell you she doesn’t dance anymore—her body broken by wear and tear. Yet her every move is liquid grace. Her ugly feet are grounded on the earth, but the rest of her glides through the world, never too fast or slow, never jerky, but also never staying in one place for too long. The most still part of her anatomy is her shielded face—not a trace of what she’s thinking or feeling—merely a slight lift of her chin, as she surveys, like a Queen, the scene around her with benign disdain, or is it fear?
Keeps me wanted to read more!
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