The Peninsula

The Fiction and Poetry Archive of Liana Mir and scribblemyname

Made to Dance

This entry is part 2 of 2 in the series Chica

Caitlin smiled as her very large husband tried to teach their very tiny five-year-old daughter how to dance. He was leaning over, holding her hands, as she stumbled one way then the other in the living room.

Finally, little Robin flopped down with a pout. “I’m just not made to dance.”

Caitlin knelt next to her. “Do you like to dance?”

Robin scrunched up her nose in evident distaste.

Suddenly, Monster scooped her up and swung her around in his arms. Robin’s delighted peals of laughter rang out as he danced with her in the air.

“Look, Mommy! I’m flying!”

Robin was now a slender, serious ten-year-old with creamy golden skin and shiny black hair. Her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as Caitlin went over the waltz with her over and over again.

Finally, Robin sat down with a sigh. “I’ll never get this.”

Caitlin smiled. “Do you like to dance?”

“I’d like to fly,” Robin answered wistfully. She set her face and got up to dance again.

Monster held Caitlin close as they watched their daughter glide down the staircase into her cotillion. She joined her tall, handsome boyfriend in a waltz. Stately, smooth, perfect.

“I think she likes to dance,” Monster whispered into Caitlin’s ear.

“I never got to tell her the rest.”

Robin smiled up into the eyes of her date. Monster smiled down into Caitlin’s.

“I think she knows.”

To Burn

This entry is part 1 of 2 in the series Chica

He burned a flush into her face from the first moment he saw her, danced her, claimed her mouth with his. His hands ignited an inferno beneath her skin that did not fade. She became his.

At four months, she didn’t want to look anywhere else. At six months, she couldn’t dare to.

But as much as Ramos talked about getting to the bottom line, he respected her more than she did. He never came to her place, and if looks could kill, she’d be dead every time she asked about going to his.

At eight months, she started flirting.

Danjou would dance her in her room and take her on the bed. His kisses didn’t light fires in her belly that would last for days or make her whole body ache with longing. But he could give her that. Kindling to Ramos’ flame.

Sometimes, she just really wanted to burn.