Remmy leaps into an impressive grand pirouette that has the crowd roaring even louder, and then he slows, his body stretched low to the ground, and I have a clear view of his back. There are wings on Remmy’s back, but not like the skin and bone wings of his sister or the dancers above. His are elegant angel-like wings drawn in ink on the canvas of his shoulders and back. The tattoos are beautiful, but they are sprouting from two parallel patches of red, angry scar tissue. And I have no doubt what once grew from that ruined flesh. I wonder in horror what must have happened for him to have lost his wings, but the beauty of his dancing drags my attention away from his back.

Despite the fact that he remains grounded, he’s flying, weaving a tale of loss that I feel deep in my gut. I never knew dance could tell such a story; I never knew it could touch me as music does or as brushstrokes do. But here I stand, completely undone.

Music from every corner of the room is crashing into itself, discordant and harmonious at the same time, rising into a glorious crescendo, and just as I’m sure my heart will explode into a million tiny pieces of grief, the two flying dancers lift Remmy off the stage and fly him above the crowd. As all the faces in the room lift toward the ceiling, the three dance together, the two Valkyries swing and toss Remmy between them as he soars in rhythmic, intricate flips and turns, a shooting star across the night sky.

Longing turns to hope, the whole room feeling it together, our bodies moving with the music. My sense of self dissolves into the crowd as the music echoes in my skull all the way to my teeth. It melts into my blood, rewriting the rhythm of my pulse, painting me as part of this communal masterpiece.

I am incandescent

a gust of evening wind

the last note of a song

the gasp between kisses…

Moments, or hours, or lifetimes later, I turn and find Michael beside me.

“There you are!” he says. I hardly hear the words over the music, but I can read his lips. “I wanted to see your reaction as someone here for the first time. Isn’t it amazing?”

I step closer to be heard over the deafening music. “It’s incredible!”

His face shines, all dimples and joy, and I can’t help but reach up and push the flop of hair out of his face. I would normally never dare, but the atmosphere of Carnevale makes it feel as if the rules are suspended for a whisper of time.

He laughs as it flops right back. “That’s a battle I lost long ago.”