Sj Dance Express

Say you’re isolated in the town of San Jose. Say your friends are up north and you’re so busy you don’t really have time to make new ones. Say you yearn deeply for the past, where you used to dance flamenco and decided that, at your young and stupid age, a (now ex) boyfriend was more important than studying the dance in Spain.
Say your depression led you to a website, the San Jose Flamenco Society, to see if there were any classes in your area. Say you found one — no, three — on Saturdays at SJ Dance Express from 10a-​12p.
Say you woke up, tired but hopeful, on your only day off in weeks, Saturday. Say you methodically put on your leggings, packed your coveted shoes and skirt you bought in Spain, the constant reminders of your regrets. Say you walk outside into the sunlight, the warm breeze, and say the smile that comes over your face as you finally — after 6 years — have a chance to dance again, is unbreakable.
Then, say you walk slowly to find the dance studio, which is in back. And, hypothetically, say you were already beginning to wonder why you couldn’t hear the loud crack of castanets in the class that should have been going on. As a final nail in the coffin, say you walk to the door, the heavy layer of dust collecting on it, to see that it looks like the studio hasn’t been occupied in at least six months, a piece of mail discarded on the floor from the mail slot, the words «Dance Express» crossed off in pen.
SJ Dance Express doesn’t exist anymore. Not from what I saw — it’s hollowed out. I would know, there’s a place in my heart that looks just like it.
Goddammit.