Dance with me

The quill was dancing on the paper. The dim light of the kerosene lamp cast shifting shadows along the walls. The only sound was the scratching of the pen against the paper. The writer placed his quill back in the inkwell.

At last, she was there. On the paper, Elise's life had taken shape. A happy childhood, swept away by her adult life. He couldn’t remember when he had first imagined her. She might have always been there.

After a short break, the writer returned to his desk. She was in the library, sitting at her desk, reading. Had she been there a few minutes ago? He wasn't sure anymore. Crossing out the last line, he went back to his original idea. Feelings. Sadness. Lost love. That was what he had planned for Elise. At the end of the day, in a purple dress, she stood waiting by the window for her long-gone lover.

When the writer came back to his desk later in the morning, he reread his latest writing. It wasn't good enough. He had found his way back to his idea. But something didn't feel right. The form was there, but the words sounded empty. The text was cold. The dying fire in the stove couldn’t warm the atmosphere. Still, he had to finish. The follow-up letter from his publisher sat on top of a rent collection notice.

He wrote a line. Crossed it out. Another. Crossed it out. The structure was there but a dissonant voice rose from the void. An out-of-tune instrument was playing in the dark.

His inspiration had gone quiet. The walls of the room were suffocating him. He decided to leave and take a walk in the early morning light. On the way home, he stopped by a café to meet some friends. The loud conversation and the smell of coffee filled the room but he could only hear the cups clinked against the saucer. On the corner, the purple dress drew his attention. She was there, looking through the café window. She seemed to be waiting for someone. People entered and left the café, moving around her without even noticing her. A waiter set down the coffee she had ordered. She sat down smoothly at the round table. The chair didn’t move. He couldn’t place her, yet her gestures seemed strangely familiar. The way she sat. The way she looked. Her smile played on her lips and her gaze seemed to fix a distant horizon. His friends' noisy conversation failed to capture his attention. Somehow, she was still in the library, sitting at her desk, reading in her purple dress. The hearty laughter of one of his friends brought him back to reality. When he glanced back at her one last time, she was gone. The cup sat on the table, untouched. The writer sighed and decided to go home. He went past a square covered in snow and went up to Montmartre. The winter wind was blowing across his hair and the trees covered with snow were shining in the morning light. The city had fallen behind him.

When he arrived in his cold room under the roof, he started writing again. As time passed, the cold crept into him from his feet to his heart. His fingers grew numb and the ink felt thicker. After a few attempts, he gave up. Crumpled papers piled up on the floor. Before he knew it, the day was gone. He had forgotten to eat. His right hand was trembling. He decided to go to bed. In his dreams, Elise was dancing. She was smiling and laughing. He had never written her so happy. Her dress, cinching her waist, swirled with the rhythm of her steps. Her beautiful smile warmed the air and the light was dancing in her bright eyes. The music filled the room. When he opened his eyes, her image was still floating in the air. Her ghostly silhouette was printed on the old ceiling.

He returned to his desk. Elise was in the garden, smelling the roses. He wasn't sure she had been there before. She was supposed to be sad, waiting for him. He crossed the line again. Then, he lowered the pen to the page. He paused. His hand didn’t move. The morning light passed through the windows and fell across the eternal empty page.

He closed his eyes. Reopened them. Took a deep breath. And started writing. Slowly at first.

Then, the quill was dancing again. The words flowed on the paper. Fast. Efficient. Uncontrollable. The handwriting moved across the page. He wasn’t tired, he didn’t hesitate. The pen was leading his thoughts. The sound of the pen preceded the writing of the words. It only took a few hours to complete several pages. The sun was long gone and the small room was only lit by the lamp. His hand had cramps and was stained by the fresh ink. He was sweating. The frost no longer covered the windows. A faint scent of roses hung in the warm air. The new chapter of Elise’s life was there. The sheets of paper piled up on the desk.

After a break, he started rereading his writing. He frowned. He turned the pages one by one. Slowly at first. Page after page his heartbeat got faster. Something was wrong. His breath was taken away. After a few pages, he stopped, staring at the page. At the top left of the page, an ink stain blemished the paper. It couldn’t be there. His cramped handwriting had been completely replaced by a rounded and flowing script. The letters leaned gently to the left. A left-handed script. The lines weren’t his. On the last page, Elise was in the garden. Smelling roses. Happy. Smiling.

He smiled back.

The next morning, when he came back from the café, Montmartre was easier to climb. The snow still covered the cobblestones. He sat down at his desk, eyes on the page, took a deep breath. The room smelled faintly of roses.