The Dancer

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She moved with the grace of a young girl, and the wisdom of an old soul, the music not just carrying her into what seemed another dimension, but transforming her into a different person.

Swaying to the music, as if her life depended on it, the audience could not take their eyes of her. Each jump leaving them breathless, each motion moving them to tears.

The conclusion of the song was brisk, and left an empty space of silence in the room, as she rushed from the center of attention to the corner of the back stage darkeness.

Smiling at me, her smile was as cold as always, the quick change from emotional, fragile and expressive to stone cold killer always left me breathless. Even if she was my twin.

“You got information on the target?”

“It’s in your briefcase as you prefer. Will her age be a problem?”

“It never has before.”

“Good.” I helped her zip up her black dress, as she stepped into heals higher then I was comfortable with. But after all she was the dancer. I was the fighter. I prefered the comfort of running shoes, and the weight of the Glock in the back of my jeans.

She wore the makeup. Sometimes I wondered where she hid the array of weapons she always carried, with all those tight dresses and costumes.

“I have to bow before my audience.”

“Of course. I will wait in the car for you.”

She nodded, cold and gracefully, and flowed back onto the stage, with the softest smile.

Copyright Claudia H. Blanton 2014

This flash fiction is a part of the Daily Prompt “Disguise” 

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