I was in a company of players. Or dancers. Amateur dancers. We were given an new piece to dance, I don’t recall the music. It was 17 minutes long. We gave it a read. A run through. After, it was decided the piece would be a solo piece. I was asked to dance it. After many rehearsals the night of the performance came. I was dressed in a nude leotard. I didn’t feel as pudgy as I usually do. There was about a half-full house. I danced. I don’t recall many of the moves, but near the end, there were several gently rolling, but intensely felt back somersaults, then I stretched out on my side three-quarter-facing the audience. My legs were extended, toes pointed and lifted off the floor. I was not holding them up. It was like they were floating. Levitating. Then slowly, as the music faded, they lowered to the floor. I closed my eyes as my hand slipped off my shoulder and relaxed to the floor. The lights faded. The music stopped.
There was a smattering of applause as the lights came up. About seven of my relatives were still there. The rest of the house was empty. A couple of them were clapping politely, the rest were shuffling their programs looking embarrassed. I took my bows.