I step out toward Sultanahmet with lost steps. The cold air breaks under a foolish drizzle, and to justify the rain I lower my umbrella. Before long I arrive at the cistern. I didn’t get too wet, fortunately. Perhaps after one last diet, my ill-luck will finally turn today? With hope I step inside. The cistern has kneaded all weather conditions together with ruthless indifference. The warm, heavy, humid air strikes my face the moment I enter. Still, none of this dampens my eagerness to dance. I change my shoes and go upstairs to the hall.

She is here too: my lover. No, wait! She used to be. Did I love him? I sometimes ask myself. Perhaps… Perhaps what I loved was that she could never quite give me up. Wherever she went to whomever, she came back to me… I was always the main character in her story. My tone might sound sorrowful to you… In truth, I was the one who left her. The reason is simple: I grew bored. I grew tired of auditioning for the lead role in someone else’s script. Don’t you think I deserve a lead role written for me?

I parked the car on the side of the road in a single, razor-sharp move. The rain is unexpectedly beautiful tonight. I am in high spirits: I am in love. To answer the rain’s gesture, I lower my umbrella. I go to the cistern, imitating the droplets that bounce off the ground. As the line moves forward, the cistern’s misty air advances upon me like a mass. Still, I am eager to display on the dance floor the agility I have sharpened with the droplets. I change my shoes and go upstairs without even bothering with lipstick or anything.

After dancing with a few people, my enthusiasm fades. Even these ancient columns feel more than many people here. They envelop the place, and as if to those whose hair has gathered raindrops while longing for a great love once lived, they offer a bittersweet “welcome.” The presence of the cistern might evoke melancholy for you. In fact, it celebrates it. The reason is simple: it grew bored. Doesn’t it deserve dancers who truly honor its upright, proud stance? Listening to the call of the columns, I look around. Isn’t there someone playful here?

He is here too: the boy I met last week. I had loved dancing with him—but did he love it as well, I wonder? I go to him hesitantly. He remembers me. I feel foolish. Of course, assuming he must have forgotten, I continued my greeting by recounting the entire lineage of how we had met. My state makes him laugh. I hadn’t realized he was this charming. We embrace to dance. The music ricocheting off the columns first surrounds us, then comes alive in our steps. The heavy air of the cistern grows light and rises upward with all the acrobats. On the floor only we remain—and perhaps a few other dreamers. At last the columns rejoice with those who know their worth.

Good heavens, their conversation is deep indeed! What is there to talk about so much?! Or did something genuinely funny happen? They laugh without pause. They have retreated toward the corner where the restrooms are. Their location is not fine, but their conversation seems to be going just fine. They appear to be getting along well… I know the girl. She is quite different. If I hadn’t liked her so much, would I be jealous of them? I know—we broke up. Still…

The tanda begins with his favorite song. I go to him and invite my ex-lover to dance. He could have refused, could have made up an excuse, but he is a polite person. He came. Does he still remember my skin, my scent? Does he miss me too? We press between the columns. It is an excuse to hold him tighter. The music disperses through the heavy air. I hear his breath—does its quickness come from excitement? The tanda ends, and he returns to his place… Same bowl, same bath. They continue their conversation right where they left off.

I had just shaken off the surprise of seeing my ex-lover when—perhaps sensing it—she invites me to dance. I leave your side for a short while, but the moment the tanda ends I find myself beside you again. Our conversation resumes where it paused. Am I keeping you too long? After all, you came here to dance. I would not want you to think I am holding you captive. Still, before I set you free, would you like to dance once more? My offer seems to please you: your cheekbones rise and your eyes stretch into two narrow lines. You hold me tightly. The floor is very crowded. Don’t worry. You are in my arms, and we are on an adventure alone. Your breath warms my cheek. Your heart beats against my chest, and in my veins I feel the blood I had long missed. I want to wrap you even more tightly. But… I cannot. The moment the tanda ends, I will set you free.