I gasp, a sharp intake

of breathe.

It's happening again.

I'm falling toward the ceiling.

I.

"Breathe," Dr. Fink tells me.

He grips my hand, forces my nails

out of my palm, and places them

on the cool, metal top of the examination table.

I grip it, hard enough to hurt,

and sit up slowly. "You're all right. Just breathe."

I try, but antiseptic

burns my nose.

"Has the room stopped spinning?"

I open my eyes. His face is a blur,

tan and black surrounded by a

halo of light. Not an angelic halo.

No, of course it hasn't.

But I pretend.

I sit up straighter, smile,

try to answer his questions

I don't want to see his face anyway.

I don't want to see his sympathetic smile.

I wish he'd tell me the truth:

"You're not all right, but I can't help you."

I make an excuse to leave, trailing

my hand along the wall to find the door.

II.

I didn't fell like rebelling that day.

Today I do.

I shouldn't be here now, trying to

dance. But if the room is spinning,

at least it's my choice.

I jump to the left and catch my partner's

hand. He spins me around, pulling

me around the room, until everything

is a blur. But I'm not falling. I feel a rush

of excitement as I'm spun aound again.

I close my eyes and stretch

my hand out,

but my partner isn't there.

III.

It's happening again.

The floor and ceiling have switched places.

My partner has spun me away

and now I'm falling toward the ceiling.

And I can't breathe.

And then I'm caught.

Someone pulls me back up, holds

me up, steadies me.

I open my eyes, searching.

I focus on two pinpricks of golden

light. The word solidifies

and I'm staring the eyes of

a familiar stranger.

He pulls me closer.

"You're all right. I've got you."

A dip, a momentary tilting

of the earth, and then

nothing.

I exhale.