The Dancers

They dance around me counter-clockwise, which is the one direction no cog in this universe turns.

I don’t think they know that. It’s an old dance, and the steps have been handed down so many times that the reason fell off along the way. But their feet know. Every lap against the grain puts a tiny drag on me, too small to measure, too small for anyone in accounts to bother with.

Two hundred dancers. Every festival. For a thousand years. Do the sums. That’s a whole day stolen back, one step at a time, in white dresses. It’s the best heist I’ve ever seen.