The sun was fiercer than before, falling straight down from overhead, the fractured light on the sea dazzling the eyes. As we walked back from the glass corridor, we passed the stairwell on the twelfth deck. Wind blew up from below, carrying a mix of disinfectant and sea salt. Dianzi paused. I paused too. We looked at each other, said nothing, and turned in.
The stairwell door closed behind us, replacing the quiet of the corridor with another kind of sound—water, laughter, the slap of plastic sandals on non‑slip mats. The higher we climbed, the clearer the sounds became, and the smell of disinfectant grew stronger.
The pool was on the ship's twelfth deck, the whole terrace facing south. Sunlight fell straight from overhead, shattered into countless fragments by the water, splashing onto everyone.
The regular area was packed.
When I came out of the changing room, I glanced over. People were queuing at the entrance. A young mother stood in the middle of the queue holding a child, a plastic bag hanging from her wrist containing a few nappies and a bottle of water. She looked down at the child's face, not at the pool.
The VIP area was on the other side, separated by a glass partition. Inside stood a few rows of loungers, each covered with a snow‑white towel, a numbered tag hanging from the armrest. No one was there.
A staff member hurried over, a standard curve fixed on his face.
"You two young ladies, this way please. The VIP area has reserved spots for you."
"No need." I gathered the ties of my cover‑up.
He paused, his gaze flicking between Dianzi and me.
"But there is quite a queue here, and the environment…"
"It is all right."
He opened his mouth, closed it, nodded, and left.
Dianzi stood beside me, having already taken off her cover‑up and draped it over her arm. The white bikini's fabric clung tightly to her chest. The size stretched the thin triangle to its limit, the edges of the fabric digging deep into the soft skin. The cleavage formed a gorge that barely let any light through, the white curves on either side dazzling under the sun. The Y‑shaped ties on her back branched from between her shoulder blades to her shoulders, and at the intersection on her spine hung a small gear, silver‑grey.
"This young lady will find us a spot," she said.
She found an empty space near the edge, spread her cover‑up on the deck, sat down, and dipped her feet into the water. Her calves sank in, and small ripples spread across the surface.
I stood by the edge of the pool and opened the floating interface. The lens first swept across the regular area—people packed tight, arms with almost no space between them. Someone stared at their watch counting time. Someone spread a towel on the floor to sit. Someone lay by the edge of the pool with closed eyes, as if gathering some kind of strength.
Then the lens turned to the VIP area. Empty loungers stood in neat rows. The numbered tags on the armrests swayed slightly in the breeze. A seagull landed on the back of one lounger, tilted its head to look around, then began to preen its feathers.
No one chased it away.
I held the lens there for three seconds.
The chat began to scroll.
[chat ] Why is there no one in the VIP area 🤔
[chat ] Tickets must be too expensive
[chat ] That is not the problem
[chat ] They do not sell tickets to those people
"My treasures," I turned the lens back and lowered my voice, "today we are dancing belly dance. The kind that learns from the waves."
I put down the interface and handed it to Dianzi. She took it, stepped back to the edge of the pool, and aimed the lens at the water.
Music flowed from the interface, carrying Middle Eastern drumbeats—urgent, dense, like raindrops hitting sand.
I closed my eyes and let my body sink into the rhythm. When my arms rose, sunlight slipped through the gaps between my fingers, casting long thin shadows on the insides of my arms. My waist began to twist, my hip pushed out to one side, the fabric over my chest stretched tighter, the cleavage rising and falling with each breath.
The first move. My hip arced to the left, and at the same time my right breast bounced upward, the bikini fabric pushed into a clear curve. As it fell, the left side followed.
The drumbeat quickened. My waist twisted like a snake, my hip drawing irregular circles—forward, back, left, right. The small gear on the Y‑shaped ties at my back shook violently with each movement. The water droplets hanging from its teeth were flung off, shattering into many tiny suns in the light.
Dianzi slid into the frame from the side. Her movements were half a beat slower than mine, but softer, like seaweed being carried by a current. We stood facing each other, an arm's length apart. I raised my hand. She raised hers. Our palms met in the air above the water—not touching, but we could feel the warmth of each other's hands.
We thrust our hips forward at the same time. The drumbeat struck. We pulled back at the same time and spun.
As I turned sideways, my peripheral vision caught someone at the edge of the crowd.
Someone standing there. Not watching. Stopping. Then leaving. Then coming back.
The same man, grey T‑shirt, no phone in his hand. The first time he stood for perhaps ten seconds, then turned and walked away. Less than a minute later, he appeared again in the same spot. This time he stayed longer.
He was not the only one. The crowd by the pool was changing, but not the kind of change that came from flow. Some people left, others took their place. The few standing in the front row never changed. Their line of sight was at the same height—not staring at any particular person, but at the same point. The point where I was dancing.
That young mother was also in the crowd. She was no longer queuing. The plastic bag still hung from her wrist. The child was awake, lying on her shoulder. Her expression was more relaxed than before, the corners of her mouth even carried a faint curve. But her right hand kept touching the same spot—below her collarbone, the button of her collar. Touch, put down, a few seconds later, touch again. A cycle. The interval between each movement was almost the same.
She did not look like she was watching a performance. She looked like she was waiting for something.
When the drumbeat entered the second section, one beat was delayed. It was not a problem with the music—I could feel it from my dance. The rhythm stretched for less than half a second at that moment, then picked up again. An ordinary person would not have noticed it.
But the crowd's reaction had no delay. Everyone clapped at the same time.
No one frowned. No one turned to look at the speaker. No one showed an expression that said "did it just stutter?" Their applause started together and stopped together. As if someone had pressed the same switch.
—Their reaction did not look spontaneous. It looked like a rhythm set in advance.
I kept dancing. When my arms reached for the sky, Dianzi stood behind me, her hands on my shoulders.
The final beat of the drum faded. The music stopped.
I panted into the lens. The bikini fabric, soaked with sweat, had darkened and clung to my skin.
"My treasures," I lowered my voice, "belly dance. Have you learned it?"
[chat ] Learned to fail 😂
[chat ] So beautiful
[chat ] One more time
I shook my head with a smile and took the interface back from Dianzi.
"This young lady cannot dance any more."
I walked to the edge of the pool, sat down, and dipped my feet into the water. It was very cold.
I turned my head to look at the crowd. The man in the grey T‑shirt was still there. He was no longer standing in his original spot. He was further away, leaning on the railing, looking at his phone.
That young mother was gone too.
I stood up and put my cover‑up back on. Dianzi stood up too.
As we passed through the regular area, most of the crowd had already dispersed. A few of those who had been standing in the front row were now packing their things or making phone calls. Their movements looked very natural.
When I reached the exit, I turned my head and looked back at the pool.
The dance was still going on. Not us dancing—someone else was making movements to the music in the same spot. Not the same dance, but a similar rhythm. The place where they stood was almost exactly where we had stood.
That young mother appeared again. She stood at the outermost edge of the crowd, the child asleep in her arms. She was not dancing. She was just standing there, looking at the water. But the place where she stood was different from before. Earlier she had been on the left, near the entrance. Now she was on the right, near the deep end.
The same mother. Two different positions.
I turned around and walked out of the pool area.