He can feel the beat, the way it throbs through his limbs and hints that maybe he’d like to move, to sway in time with the others, because even though he has no clue what sort of music is playing, he has a genuine sense of time and can count.
Just because he cannot hear the electric guitars or piano or rappers’ voices doesn’t mean he can’t dance. He simply chooses not to.
So it’s a pleasant surprise when a girl slides up to him, holding a cup of punch and smiles at him.
He smiles back. She opens her mouth to speak, and maybe he ought to be able to hear her voice, or maybe no one else would hear her either. He cups a hand around one ear in a universal gesture and shrugs apologetically.
She takes it in totally the wrong way, but it lights up his night. He can only watch, confused, as she sets down her cup of punch. And then she raises her hands and begins to draw words in the air, and he cannot stop his smile.
Her name is Sylvia, and she’s a history major. She lives nearby, and she came to the dance with from friends. She’s been signing all her life, and she loves old noir films.
He’s almost worked up the nerve to ask her to dance when she suddenly turns her head. He’s confused, because he doesn’t know what she saw - and then he realizes she can hear. She turns and continues to sign, but the person who approaches - a boy, taller, more handsome than he could ever hope to be - isn’t signing.
She can hear.
He wonders why he feels suddenly and painfully betrayed, and while she’s distracted he ducks into the crowd.
(296 words)
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