The Choreographer

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One, two, three. One, two, three.

She went through the steps in her mind. The light and smoke tricking her eyes so the vapor danced her choreography. She ordered water because whiskey would dilute her imagination but lit up another, another in a long chain, and let the smoke flutter in and out of beat.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

Her exhale turned gracefully into a pirouette. A partner came with her next breath, lifting up the dancing wisp and placing it gently on the wood. The condensation caught in the light, setting the stage and waiting for another wisp of smoke to dance along the bar-top.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

The world of her mind, the beats and steps, played before her as the deafening applause from the theater beyond the bar erupts. Through the doors her previous hallucinations possessed human form with every twirl and leap. But she preferred the smoke.

One, two, three. One, two, three.