dance lesson & cleaning

I was sitting inside an office, looking out the window. I could see down to the street where people were coming and going. It was on dusk and across the street I could see through a window on the second floor, into a dance studio above a shop. The sign outside said “Basque Dancing” and inside was a male teacher with a couple of adult students. From his manner, I understood that he was a master at the form but also proud and beautiful, like a peacock. The women fawned on him a little, and he looked to be used to the attention. Regardless, I was fascinated by the dance which was provocative, energetic and hypnotic. I wanted to learn, not certain that this was precisely the dance style for me, but realising that I needed to try to know. The class finished and the dance studio lights went out. The man appeared in the street below, walking briskly to a sports car parked below my window. I called out to him and told him that I wanted to learn his dance. He glanced at me dismissively and replied that he was on his way to perform at a convention or some such thing, and he had no time to talk. I pulled my hair back from my face and he took a second look. I told him I used to dance but I had not danced for a very long time; that though I was not now in condition, I could be again; that the dance was within me. He walked over, looked me up and down, saying that he could now see. He said I was an attractive woman and told me to come to class. He left and I moved from my window seat. I walked away, a little unsure of his character but pleased to be invited to his studio. I felt a little old and dowdy, but knew that I would be transformed. I went through a conference room where most of the staff were watching a presentation in the dark, and entered another room, a kitchen and meeting room, through a door in the side wall. Only a couple of people seated at the rear of the meeting noticed me walk through. In the fluorescent brightness of this room, I could see that it was in need of a good clean. Dust coated the bench tops and caked on the white surfaces in lines where the flat shelves met the walls. Coffee rings stained the central table and though it was tidy, even efficiently organised, there was evidence of lack of care. I knew that the cleaners employed to do this had been neglectful. I wanted to clean the room so that it was ready for the staff when they finished their meeting, but I was simultaneously aware that I would be prioritising this room over my own work which needed my attention when I returned to my desk. My work in question was the proofreading and design of books. If I cleaned it, I hoped that no one would walk in and see me in case they relegated the cleaning job to me from here on in, or that the act of servicing their needs would lower their respect for me, and wondered if I was using my time and the organisation’s time wisely, by doing a job that was not mine, over my work. I cleaned it as quickly as I could and then left the room to return to my work.