Don't Stop the Music

Valerie had music and movement buried deep in her soul; you could ask anyone. She played the saxophone in her bedroom until late at night and turned her old CD player all the way up while she was cooking, and the notes would twirl themselves around the deep flavor of tomato sauce simmering on the stove. She always sang, too, on her favorite songs, eyes closed as if she was praying, her whole body quivering as though possessed. Sound and movement were always intrinsically connected for her, and her soul always felt like hot ashes ready to burst into flame. When Valerie danced, God did she dance. It was as though she was only truly alive on the dancefloor; the rest of the time, she was just pretending.

It was hard to tell what stories about her were true. Had she been thrown out of her house after an argument with her parents, or had she snuck out of her window in the middle of the night? She knew it was better to be a myth than just another woman on her own in a town left behind by the steady drumbeat of history.

There weren’t many opportunities to dance in such a place, but Valerie grasped every chance she got like her life depended on it, always showing up fashionably late and wrapped in an extravagant array of faux furs. When there weren’t any planned events, she would create them, inviting the whole town over for all-night raggers. The paleness in her cheeks before the party started would be fully transformed into the bloom of perfect health by the next morning as she ate leftovers for breakfast.

No one, not even those allowed in her inner cycle, noticed how frail her body would become as more and more time passed between jams as the years went by. Sure, anyone could see that she had lost weight, and at first, they would say she looked amazing and ask her what her secret was. But as the pounds continued to drop, more and more voices were raised in concern. But she would never complain, much less dream of going to a doctor. Valerie hadn’t seen anyone for her broken foot, so what was the point? There was a good band playing the next town over; did anyone want to join her to see them?

When she came back looking renewed, she just said that getting out of the house had done her well. The winter was nearly over, and the celebrations of spring and summer were just starting to get into swing. She would make it through another year.

But each winter just got harder and harder. The cold seized the land and put out all the life in it with the same puff of frozen air that snuffed out the matches she used to light her fires every morning. No one left their houses if they could help it, and in isolation, Valerie’s cheeks sunk in, and the strength and vigor of her body seemed to seep away a little more every day. Her friends’ eyes searched for answers without ever daring to voice concern, and soon enough, the talk turned to the next live event for a local band, and her eyes lit up the same way they used to.

As the day got closer and closer, it was harder for her to get out of bed, but she forced herself to. Valerie had to find that one dress that always looked good on her, paint her nails, and buy some new lipstick and blush to give her cheeks a little more color. Her skin was so pale it almost looked blue.

Someone would come to pick her up because she didn’t trust herself to drive, and she carefully dressed and curled her hair before she decided to lie down and wait for her ride. She was tired, and she just wanted to close her eyes.

They found her like that, dressed to the nines, so gorgeous that, at first, they thought she was sleeping. But she could no longer pick out the songs on the radio, and her heart no longer beat with the possibility of motion. The winter had been too long and harsh, and her feet hadn’t felt the comfort of her dance shoes when they needed it the most. Everyone knew the truth no matter what the doctors said, and even though it was too late to save her, they did make sure to send her off in style. They remembered her by swaying to the beat until the first rays of light crept up over the horizon.  Calla Smith lives and writes in Buenos Aires, Argentina.