When two people have danced together for a long time, an intimacy develops that goes beyond words. Those of us who are fluent in the language of the body can say much more with it than we could ever manage with our stupid and unskilled tongues. Our skin, our eyes, the ouch of our hands, the angle of a soulder, the turn of a head, speak a language of muscle and sinew, chemical and blood, which is unmistakable and because it has nothing to do with our conscious minds, it does not lie.
Try to imagine, I tell them, although I am still struggling to catch my breath, 'that you are in the grip of a mad passion. You,' to the boy, 'have a splinter of poison in your heart that is making you crazy, and you,' to the girl, ' have a chunk of ice for a heart which is so cold that it burns you. You live in a frozen palace. You are a queen and you are immortal. You have been alone for thousans of years and you are desperate to find someone to love.'
The two of them nod at me wisely, but their faces are as blank as marionettes.
'Have you ever been in love?' I ask the dancers.
'Yes' says the boy, and 'yes,' says the girl/
'Have you suffered?'
The two of them look at each other, embarassed, and laugh.
'You will not understand these roles,' I tell them, 'until you have suffered for love.'
Of course I know that they don't believe me,
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