The Perfect Waltz

The Perfect Waltz

Illustration by Michael D. Pederson

by Eileen Maksym


On its opening night, the fall carnival was a fairytale land wrought of the glimmer of electric lights and the dry, acrid smell of sawdust. The whistling music of the organ grinders and the carousel ran counterpoint to the short staccato taunts of the barkers.

“Step right up! Test your strength! Win a prize for the little lady!”

Thud, ding!

“There’s a winner every game!”

“Toss a ball, win a goldfish! Step right up! Penny a try, twelve for a dime!”

Past the rides and the games of chance were the tents that drew the curious of all ages, where the broad swaths of canvas were slapped with bright paint, big pictures, bold words. Outside each tent stood a man in a vest and white gloves, with a top hat and a gold-headed cane. In loud voices these men promised the wonders of the world to anyone brave enough to step forward and press money into their palms.

“The Illustrated Man!”

“The Bearded Lady!”

“The Fiji Mermaid!”

“The Siamese Twins!”

“This chance comes but once in a lifetime!”

“Step up! Don’t be shy!”

The tent on the far right was different than the others. Instead of the flaps being closed to hide the shadowy marvels that awaited the paying customer, they were tied back with velvet ropes, and a ring of lights illuminated a circular stage within. Off to the side was a small table upon which sat a phonograph. The barker stood in front as usual, but up on the platform itself was a young man, impeccably dressed in a tuxedo, his head bowed. Or at least one would mistake him for a man at first glance. But upon closer inspection, it became clear that “he” was an exceptional imitation. His face was wax, his eyes glass, his hair a carefully maintained wig.

“Come witness the marvel of the industrial age!” the man with the top hat and cane cried. “The Mechanical Man! One silver dollar, and the gentleman will dance the perfect waltz!”

There was a murmur of disdain from the crowd, and a few people started to drift away.

The barker held up his hands. “I know, I know, a whole silver dollar seems a dear price to pay. But I assure you, it’s more than worth it for the experience of a lifetime! Don’t believe me? How about a demonstration?” He surveyed the crowd, cold blue eyes sparkling. They alighted on a girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen; she stood with her wide brown eyes fixed on the marvelous invention. His lips curled in a smile, and he held out a gloved hand. “Come, my dear. Have a dance on the house.”

She blinked and glanced from side to side, expecting the glove to indicate someone else. But when she looked back to the stage, the grin that drew the man’s cheeks back and crinkled his eyes was even wider, and that stare was unmistakably focused on her. She straightened and drew near, reached out her small, pale hand, and laid it in the much larger gloved one. She was struck by how cold it was.

The barker led her onto the stage, up to the mechanical man. His voice was at once a seductive croon and loud enough for the rest of the growing crowd to hear. “What’s your name, my dear?”

She glanced nervously at the upturned faces, their eyes on her. “Jane, sir.”

“What a lovely name! Do you know how to dance, Jane?”

“A… a little, sir.”

“Well, do not worry your pretty little head. The wondrous Mechanical Man will lead you. All you need to do is relax and enjoy! Now, stand here…” He positioned her at the side of the form that stood, stiff and still, facing the audience. “And now, the silver dollar!” He waved his cane in the air, the gold head glittering in the lights, and followed its motion with the other hand, raised, palm out. Then he snapped his fingers, and a silver coin leapt into existence between his fingertips.

The crowd oohed and aahed.

He tipped his hat with a grin, then walked the coin over his knuckles as he approached the stiff figure. There was a slot where the automaton’s spine met its skull, and the barker inserted the coin with a flourish.

The figure shuddered, and Jane took a step back. From inside its chest came a click… click… click, click, click, clickclickclick…

Suddenly the Mechanical Man lifted its head and, to the awe and delight of the crowd, pivoted to face Jane. Jane stiffened and wondered if it was going to attack her. Instead, with a strange, jerky grace it bowed, and a giggle rippled through the spectators. Jane glanced at them, and returned the bow with her best curtsy, which was awkward even for a farm girl. The Mechanical Man straightened, raised its right hand and reached out with its left. Jane stared for a moment, then felt the barker behind her, easing her forward.

“Go on, my dear, do not be frightened. He’s a gentleman and will not hurt you.”

She edged forward, into the strange figure’s stiff embrace, and clasped the raised hand hesitantly, positioning her other hand on the firm upper arm. The automaton tightened its grip and brought the other wax hand up to rest on her shoulder blade. Jane swallowed, wondering what would happen if she tried to pull away now. Would it let her go? Would the grip tighten further, crushing her, without a thought, for daring to resist?

Her worrying did not go much further, however, before she heard the scratch of a needle being put to a record, and a waltz began to play. The figure nodded, a small signal, and began to move with surprising fluidity. Jane followed as best she could, stumbling through the steps that her mother had taught her. She tried not to think about the crowd, judging her for her awkwardness, her plain dress and her gangly body. But then she heard the mutters and sighs and giggles.

“Look at that!”

“He’s so graceful!”

“Me next!”

“Momma, can I have a silver dollar?”

They were admiring the footwork of the man of metal and wax, she realized, and not looking at her at all. She felt her shoulders relax, and allowed herself to lean into the hand on her back. Her brown eyes focused on the Mechanical Man’s blue glass ones, and her movements became more natural as she allowed him to lead her around the stage, the pair of them twirling until the song came to an end.

The automaton released her, its hands returned to its sides, and it stepped back and bent once again in a courtly bow.

Jane repeated her curtsy, this time with a bit of grace that seemed to have settled into her during the dance.

Then the barker was at her side, clasping her elbow, leading her away. She followed, but looked back over her shoulder. The Mechanical Man turned, seeming to watch her as she was led away.

“Thank you, my dear,” the barker purred when they reached the stage steps and he released her. Then he spread his arms and his grin widened.

“Ladies! Curious gentlemen! The dance card is open! Step right up!”

Jane descended the few steps to the ground, then backed away and watched as the crowd advanced toward the stage in a crush, hands lifted, silver coins glinting in the light. She looked up at the Mechanical Man once more, and its blue eyes seemed to gaze back at her. Then, something happened that stopped her heart in her chest, and made her turn and flee into the night.

It winked.

* * * * *

Later that night, as she lay awake in her bed in the tiny garret room of the farmhouse, she thought of that moment, when that one waxen eyelid had seemed to drop over its corresponding eye, and decided that her imagination had gotten the best of her. It couldn’t possibly have winked. It must have been a trick of the light. And even if it had winked, there was no way it could have possibly winked at her, nor at anyone for that matter. The eyes were glass. He wasn’t even a real person!

That’s right. Not a real person.

She lay there, staring at the darkness, listening to the clock on her nightstand.

Tick, tick, tick…

When she failed to fall asleep, she sat up and swung her feet to the bare boards. Careful not to make a noise that would wake her parents below, she crept to her dresser and picked up the pretty wooden cigar box that rested on top. She flipped the lid open and gazed at the box’s contents, glimmering in the moonlight.

Three silver dollars.

Moments passed, marked by the tick of the clock behind her, as she contemplated the coins, humming a waltz.

* * * * *

The next night, after the chores were done and her momma gave her leave, Jane returned to the carnival. She wove through the crowds: the children clutching a parent with one hand and the paper cone of a cotton candy with the other, the couples dazzled by the electric lights reflected in each others’ eyes, the giggling groups of ladies and the gentlemen with their fedoras and appraising glances. She passed the ferris wheel, the shooting galleries, the booths emitting the pleasant, greasy smells of fried dough and popcorn. She went to the tents that lined the back of the fair, and to the far right, where a crowd of people, mostly women, was gathered in a jostling semblance of a line.

On the stage the Mechanical Man was dancing with a graying woman in a blue dress, her hair flowing loose over her shoulders. The woman laughed as they twirled, and her joyous smile seemed to melt the wrinkles from her face. It took a moment for Jane to recognize her as the town’s typically dour postmistress.

The barker with the top hat and the white gloves stood by the phonograph and mirrored her grin as he tapped his gold-headed cane on the ground in time with the beat.

When the postmistress’ dance was over, the woman responded to the Mechanical Man’s bow with a curtsy, then descended, twisting her long hair up into a bun once more. Her hands were haphazard, and as she passed by Jane, the girl could see wisps of grey hair dancing in the cool autumn night breeze, as if in time with the waltz the woman was humming under her breath.

Jane joined the line of women waiting for a turn. One by one those in front of her climbed the stairs, placed their silver dollar into the white glove, and were twirled around the stage. Dance by dance she inched forward, watching as woman after woman found joy, or solace, or youth, in the mechanical arms.

The crowd at the fair was thinning out by the time it came close to Jane’s turn, the noise fading to an echo of the roar it had been when she arrived. There were only a few women left ahead of her, and a few behind her. She could see the barker glance at his pocket watch, then survey the line. The next time a patron completed her dance, he escorted her down the stairs and released her elbow with a slight bow, a touch to the brim of his top hat, and a brisk wave. Then he walked along the line, tapping his cane in his hand, his lips moving in a silent count. He stopped just in front of Jane.

“Attention, ladies and… ladies.”

A giggle rippled through the women.

“The evening draws to a close, and as such I regret I must send some of you away.” He turned toward the line. “Everyone past…” He began to lower his cane in front of Jane, then looked at her, and his eyes widened and sparkled with recognition. The man’s lips spread in a slow smile, and he lifted his cane again and brought it down behind her.

“Everyone past here.”

Then he swept his arm wide in a grand gesture of apology to all the women in line behind her. “I am afraid that I shall have to ask you ladies to return and visit us at another time. Thank you, and have a lovely evening.”

The women began to disperse with a few resigned sighs and disgruntled mumbles. The barker waved to the departing crowd. “Au revoir! Farewell! God speed!” He tipped his hat to Jane, and returned to the stage.

The last few dances seemed to stretch on forever, as the spreading shadows and the sounds of unrolling canvas signaled that the carnival was curling in on itself to sleep for the night. But eventually Jane stood at the bottom of the stairs. The woman immediately ahead of her laid her head on the Mechanical Man’s shoulder as they moved around the stage, and Jane was puzzled that this woman was dancing such a different dance than the postmistress. The grey-haired woman had found happiness in the dance, but this woman, far younger, had an air of sorrow about her. And although the very same song was playing on the phonograph as had been for every dance before, it seemed that the Mechanical Man was dancing more slowly, the waxen, bloodless hands holding her with heart.

When the dance came to an end, the woman curtsied and descended the stairs, wiping her eyes. Jane watched her pass, then looked up at the barker. The man stood on the stage with a kind but knowing smile on his face, and held out one white-gloved hand. Jane met his eyes and ascended, then slipped her hand into his. He raised an eyebrow and gave a slight dry laugh, then bowed his head to press a kiss to her knuckles and released her hand. He straightened and spread his hand open again.

“The silver, Miss Jane,” he said with a jovial smile shot through with condescension.

Jane blinked, then blushed. She reached into the pocket of her blue-checked dress and pulled out a silver dollar, one of the three from her box. She placed it into his palm, and watched the white-clad fingers curl over it.

“This way, my dear,” he crooned.

Jane followed him to the Mechanical Man, who stood, still and quiet. The barker went behind the contraption and slid her coin into the slot at the base of the skull.

Click, click, click, click…

He moved behind her, took her by the shoulders, positioned her in front of the figure of wax and metal and paint. His hands lingered, and Jane blinked as she felt him lean forward, felt his breath hot on her ear.

“I thought you’d return, my dear,” he crooned. “I think he’s been waiting for you.”

Almost on cue, the Mechanical Man lifted its head, and Jane drew in a sharp breath as the glass eyes met hers. She could swear she saw a soft glimmer of life in them.

The barker smoothed his hands down Jane’s arms as he pulled back to stand beside the phonograph. He positioned the needle over the outer rim of the record, and eased it down. After a moment of scratch sounds, the familiar music began to play.

“The perfect waltz,” he announced.

The Mechanical Man bowed, and Jane responded once more with a curtsy, still awkward, but less so, due to the practice of the previous night and the privacy of this moment. The automaton lifted its left hand and extended its right; Jane stepped into the offered embrace, her breath catching as their chests touched. The figure nodded, and she could swear she saw a smile on its waxen lips as it began to move.

This dance was different than the one the night before. Even though the barker stood on the same stage, it felt to Jane that she and her dancing partner were alone. The Mechanical Man’s hands held her attentively, and its eyes seemed to gaze into hers. Even though the figure’s chest was doubtless made of cloth and wire, like a dressmaker’s dummy, Jane imagined that she felt it rise and fall with impossible breath.

When the music came to an end, the wax hands released her, and the cloth and wire torso bent in a bow. Jane swallowed and curtsied. She watched, retreating, as the Mechanical Man shuddered, and the soft whir became a distinguishable patter of clicks. They became slower and slower until the figure’s head dropped to its chest, its shoulders slumped, and all was still.

“Did you enjoy your dance, my dear?”

Jane jerked and whirled around to find the barker standing very close, his cane planted on the ground in front of him, both hands folded over it. He was leaning forward ever so slightly, his head canted to the side, regarding her with an amused glimmer in his eye.

She stepped back. “Y-yes.”

He smiled, half cultured, half lupine. “I am very pleased to hear that. We aim to provide an unforgettable experience.” His smile widened, the wolf becoming dominant. “I’m glad you returned. Such a pretty young thing… I think he likes you.”

“He…” She took another step back. “He’s not real.”

His smile faded, and his eyes became darker, sharper…

Then the smile was back, as if it had never left.

“Of course not.” He tipped his hat. “Good evening to you, my dear.”

He turned to the phonograph.

Jane’s heart was thumping in her chest as she headed for the steps.

“Oh, and Jane?”

She looked back. The barker was sliding the record into a paper sleeve. He shifted his eyes to hers.

“See you tomorrow.”

* * * * *

The two remaining silver dollars that lay in the cigar box atop her desk occupied her thoughts all the next day as she went about the farm doing her chores. Their image hung in her mind, shining like the blue glass eyes of the Mechanical Man. She danced as she threw feed to the chickens, her feet following the steps of an invisible, perfect partner. She hummed as she milked the cow, the stream of hot milk ringing against the side of the pail as she pulled the teats in time with the music. And as she knit heavy woolen socks for her father, she closed her eyes, and felt the Mechanical Man holding her, felt the hand that clasped hers loosen, slide around to her back, draw her close.

* * * * *

Once dinner was over, Jane raced to the fairgrounds and pushed through the chaos, barely seeing the lights or feeling the jostles. She made her way back to the sideshows and the open tent on the right, and the first thing she saw was the barker, atop the stage, above a sea of waving women, his arms outstretched, crowing.

“Step right up, one and all! Dance as you’ve never danced before! As you’ll never dance again! The one and only perfect waltz!”

The women surged up towards the stage and the man laughed. “Ladies! Ladies! One at a time! No fighting, please! We will do our best to accommodate all of you.”

Then he caught sight of Jane standing in the back of the group, and his smile widened, shifted from the general jovial smile of the showman to an intimate smile of a confidant. He bowed, and held out his hand toward her. She drew a breath and walked forward, through the crowd of women who turned and stared and hissed amongst themselves.

“That’s not fair…”

“Should be first come, first served…”

“Clearly he has a thing for her…”

“She’s not even that pretty…”

Jane tried to ignore the comments, but couldn’t help the deep blush that seeped into her cheeks.

The barker lifted one white-gloved hand, palm out, and gave the crowd a stern look.

“Ladies! Really! Listen to yourselves! You want to dance the perfect waltz, but nothing can hide the lack of grace in your hearts!” He glared down at them for a moment in the resulting silence. Then his expression softened as he turned back to Jane. “Please continue, my dear.”

She nodded and climbed the stairs, one by one, as if in a dream. When she reached the top she took the silver dollar out of her pocket. He plucked it from her hand, and her pulse picked up as he led her to the Mechanical Man, standing there, waxen face tilted toward the ground, gloved hands at its sides. The barker positioned her, inserted the coin with his customary flourish, then withdrew to the phonograph. Jane closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, her stomach fluttering as she felt dozens of eyes on her. She willed herself to be calm, quiet, still. The music began, and she lifted her head and opened her eyes, just as the Mechanical Man was doing the same.

It looked into her eyes. And reached out for her.

She met its gaze, and stepped into its embrace.

Its hands were gentle as they danced, and there was no one else, nothing else, just the sensation of its arm supporting her, guiding her, its hand holding hers. Their feet moved together in rhythm with nothing but the beating of their hearts.

The beating of their hearts…

The spell broken, Jane drew back with a gasp. The song was over, the Mechanical Man’s arms had withdrawn, and it gave the customary jerky bow, its glass eyes fixed forward. It straightened, became still.

There was a moment of silence.

Then the women clamored against the stage, waving silver dollars in the air. The barker lifted his hands, saying “Please… ladies, please…”

To Jane, all the noise sounded like it was coming from very far away. She stared at the still figure of the Mechanical Man, all wax and wire and cloth and straw.

But… I felt his…

She lifted a trembling hand and reached out for the figure’s chest…

And a white-gloved hand caught her by the wrist.

Her head snapped to the side. Her gaze was pinned by the eyes of the barker, sharp as surgical steel.

“No,” he said simply, moving her hand back to her side. He gave her a tight smile, and with a bow held out his arm toward the stage steps.

“I’m… I’m sorry…”

“No need,” he said, his smile perfect, his eyes unyielding. “Good evening, miss.”

She glanced once more at the figure of the Mechanical Man. He was motionless—just a big doll, really. Certainly she must have been imagining.

Must have been.

She nodded shakily. “Good evening, sir,” she murmured, and then turned, took the stairs as fast as she dared, and pushed through the eager crowd.

* * * * *

That night she once again lay awake, staring up at the ceiling. The dim light of the moon filtered through the gauzy yellowed lace curtains over her window. One hand was on her chest, feeling her heart beat, her ribs rise and fall with each breath, as she thought of the Mechanical Man. She wondered if he had a name. She wondered if he could speak, and what his voice would sound like. She imagined, as she lay there in the moonlight, what it would feel like to have his arms around her, his lips, flushed and warm, pressed to hers in the perfect kiss.

* * * * *

It wasn’t until the hour right before dawn that Jane finally drifted to sleep.

* * * * *

Her fingers are poised to touch the Mechanical Man’s chest…

“Couldn’t stay away, could you?”

She whirls.

The barker’s head is bare, his vest is missing, and his gloves are gone.

His hands are made of wax.

“Do they bother you, my dear?”

The man approaches her, his sharp eyes sparkling. He holds out his hands, and as he flexes them, Jane watches in awe as the wax moves like flesh. He comes very close to her, and she stares into his eyes as he runs the smooth backs of his knuckles down her cheek. Jane is frozen, rooted, unable to pull away, only able to close her eyes and tremble.

“Oh, my dear, there’s no need for you to be afraid. Please, look at me.”

Still shaking, she blinks her eyes open.

His gaze snares and holds hers. He lifts his other hand to cup both her cheeks, and runs his thumbs over her cheekbones.

“Such a lovely, lovely girl,” he croons.

One hand drops from her cheek, and she shivers as it slides down her side, over her hip, and slips into the pocket that holds the last silver dollar. He pulls it out, holds it up. Jane watches, fascinated, as he walks it over his fingers, the wax squeaking against the metal. 

Her hands tingle, and Jane looks down and gasps. Her hand is being covered in wax. It begins with the fingertips, spreads along her fingers, over the rest of her hands, up her arms. Panicked, she tries to rub the wax from her skin.

But it isn’t on her skin.

It is her skin.

“Relax my dear,” the barker soothes.

Jane watches as her arms become perfectly sculpted limbs of wax. Her torso, her hips and legs, up her neck and finally to her head… everything is transformed.

She is perfect. Perfectly made. Perfectly poised.

The barker smiles wide. “You wanted to dance the perfect waltz. Now you shall.”

He caresses her waxen cheek with the backs of his fingers, then circles her, regarding her with an approving eye. He withdraws her silver dollar from his vest pocket, and presses the edge to the back of her neck, where her spine meets her skull. Jane’s waxen form shudders, and a small moan wells up in her chest at the tender pain. The coin dents the surface, then breaks through, disappearing within her and leaving a slot, a small trickle of blood running down her neck.

“There, my dear,” he whispers.

He steps before her, clasps her hand, slides an arm around her waist.

And, from somewhere, music begins to play…

* * * * *

Jane awoke, the sound of the waltz echoing through her head, the feel of the barker’s body against hers lingering on her skin.

* * * * *

Jane moved through the next day as if half-alive, the lack of sleep taking its toll. She missed several eggs in the chicken coop, was careless with the milk buckets and placed them where the cow kicked them over, and lost all of her knitting time when she had to unravel several rows to find and mend a dropped stitch. When it came time to help her mother prepare dinner, Jane was slow and sloppy as she peeled and chopped, and her mother eyed her.

“Jane,” she said as she finished plucking and cleaning the chicken, “you’ve been to that fair the past three nights.” She took some of the potatoes from her daughter and began to peel them swiftly. “I think you should stay home tonight.”

Jane’s eyes snapped all the way open, and she looked up from the carrot she had been slicing. “What? No… Mom, it’s the last night…”

Her mother frowned, her weathered face creased with concern. “Jane Elizabeth Morris, I’m surprised at you. What is it about this carnival? You’ve already seen it. How many times do you need to ride the ferris wheel?” She gave her a sharp glance. “Or is it something else? A boy?”

“No! I… I just like it, is all…”

“Well, then if that’s all, then you can stand to take a break from it and actually go to bed at a decent time.”

“But Mother…”

The older woman shook her head. “The answer is no. You will be staying home tonight and that’s final. Now chop those carrots, young lady, and pick up the pace. They need to be in the pot in the next few minutes or dinner won’t be ready when your father comes in from the field.”

Jane tightened her jaw. “Yes, ma’am,” she ground out between clenched teeth, then lowered her head and attacked the carrots with savage concentration.

* * * * *

Jane retreated to her room after dinner and curled up on her bed with a well-loved book. Half of her attention was on the story, while the other half listened to the movements downstairs. When her mother called up that it was bedtime, she set her shoes by her window, then climbed into bed fully clothed. She lay in the mostly-dark, her blankets pulled up in case her mother came to check on her. Her heart was pounding, and she kept glancing at the clock, watching the night tick away. If she closed her eyes she could imagine her mother and father sitting in the parlor downstairs, her father reading the Evening Post, her mother doing cross-stitch. Those images would only remain for a few moments, however, before they would fade and be replaced by the Mechanical Man, his eyes gazing into hers with perfect understanding, his hand holding hers with perfect affection.

After a few hours, Jane was roused from a half-sleep by the sound of her parents moving down the hall to their bedroom in the back of the house, strains of their hushed voices drifting up to the garret. She waited until she heard the door to their bedroom close, then took a deep breath and did a long, slow count to one hundred. She eased out of bed and crept across the floor to the dresser, where she opened the cigar box and withdrew the last silver dollar. She slipped it into her pocket, went to the window, carefully slid it open…


She froze. Held her breath. Listened for some indication that she had been heard.

But the house remained still. She released her breath in a slow sigh. As her heart pounded, she removed the screen and stepped out onto the roof over the front porch. Crouching, she worked her way to the edge, then climbed down the lattice-work. A shiver ran through her when her feet met the ground, and for a moment she looked up at her dark window. Then she turned and walked as quietly as she could to the road, where she began to run.

* * * * *

When she arrived at the fairground, the carnival was closed, and her heart sank. The moon and the kerosene lanterns from the workers’ tents gave the midway an eerie appearance of silvery shadows tinged with gold highlights. She could hear gruff laughter and drunken songs from inside the canvas enclosures, and wanted, very much, to turn around, go back home.

But she wanted to see him more.

And so, step by step, she crept past the barren booths, the ferris wheel dark and still, the bottles of the ring-toss glinting slyly, her only companions coming at the end in the form of the paintings on the sideshow tents. They beckoned to her and leered at her, drew her toward them and promised to show her such things that she would never be the same…

Unlike every other time she had seen it, the front flaps on the tent to the far right had been loosed from their red velvet ropes, and the stage was enclosed, hidden. The stairs that she had climbed before now led to the place where the canvas overlapped. Jane took them one by one, aware in a way she hadn’t been before just how much they shifted with each step, how the nails squealed against the wood. The realization forced her to slow down. She did not want to be caught. Not when she was so close.

She drew back the heavy flap, and a single ray of warm yellow kerosene light pierced the darkness, momentarily blinding Jane. When her eyes adjusted, she saw the stage, now a wooden floor enclosed by heavy canvas. And in the center stood the Mechanical Man, in his tuxedo, his blue glass eyes staring at the ground, his hands hanging at his sides. He was alone; the barker was nowhere in sight.

Jane eased inside, and as the flaps fell behind her, they slapped together softly, closing out the last bit of darkness so that she was now embraced by the warm light. She approached the Mechanical Man, her head canted, watching. Was that a blink? A shift in his eyes? Did his chest just expand in a breath? Did his hand twitch?

“Hello,” she murmured. She felt a bit silly that she was talking to a…

A doll. That’s all he is. He’s not alive. He doesn’t think about you… like you… love…

She shoved that last thought out of her head. She never thought that, she can’t have thought that, it was crazy.

Yet her pulse quickened as she drew closer. She stood staring for a few long moments, then reached up, as she had the night before, to touch his chest.

It was still beneath her fingers.

She frowned for a moment before it occurred to her. Of course. She reached into her pocket and withdrew the silver dollar, then stepped around him and slid the coin into the slot where the spine met the skull. As the clicking began, she positioned herself before him once again.

Her eyes widened as she saw the Mechanical Man take a deep breath, his chest expanding, his shoulders rising. He breathed out with a sigh, and lifted his head. As she watched in awe, the wax on his face softened to flesh, and the paint that made the lips pink became a flush of warm living blood, just under the surface. His blue eyes, no longer glass, looked into hers with a gentle longing. He lifted his arms; he held his hands out to her.

Jane approached, dazed, gazing into those lovely eyes.

The Mechanical Man gazed back, his expression one of care, even love, tinged with sorrow. As Jane stepped into his arms, he curled them around her, drew her close, embracing her instead of holding her in the traditional waltz stance. His eyes never left hers.

From somewhere, music began to play, and Jane and the man began to dance, arms around each other, eyes locked. He held her tenderly, and although his lips were silent, his eyes spoke, whispering of desire, experiences and sensations, of the world that lay beyond the cornfields of her tiny little town.

When the music was over, he smiled gently, cupped her cheek in one warm hand of soft flesh, leaned down, and touched his lips to hers.

Jane drew in her breath, long, slow, shuddering, and allowed her eyes to drift closed. She had never been kissed before. Her lips were timid, hesitant, but his were kind and soft, and her awkwardness melted away. His arms encircled her, drew her close, and she pressed herself to him. A soft sound of longing slipped from her lips as she gave herself over to this new dance.

This perfect waltz.

* * * * *

She woke up on the muddy ground, a light rain caressing her skin. Groggy, she pushed herself up, blinking in the morning light. The field was empty, the earth gouged with wagon tracks that were filling with water. She stared at them, then shook her head, and her breath hitched into sobs. Tears began to drip down her cheeks, mingling with the raindrops.

He had shown her such lovely things, then left her behind.

Then came a thought that both comforted her and filled her with sorrow. She reached into her pocket, certain she would find the silver dollar there, proof that it had all been a dream. However, instead of cold metal, her fingertips encountered something else. She withdrew her hand and opened it to find a small package: a note wrapped around a wax heart.

Until next year, my dear…


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