My dance puppet is a full size puppet

 I left her on the table at the club again—my dance partner, the puppet. No legs, naturally, but one hell of a personality—or at least, one hell of a stare. Her eyes were bloodshot, her stitched eyebrows furrowed in what could only be described as “permanent pissed-off chic.” She’s the kind of woman who never speaks, never argues—honestly, she’s one good woman. Really, she’s all backbone… figuratively speaking. Well, minus the legs, obviously.

A bloke came over and asked, “Is she all right?”

I smiled and said, “Yeah, she’s fine. Just a bit string-tangled.”

He raised an eyebrow. “String…tangled?”

“Oh, you know,” I said, “she just gets wound up sometimes.”

He nodded slowly, clearly buying it. “Right… Uh… does she, like… get drunk?”

I shrugged. “Nope, she’s always sober… but she does hang around my neck a lot.”

He laughed nervously. “So, she’s your…?”

“She’s my type,” I said. “Always supportive, never talks back, and literally keeps her head on straight. I mean, look at her—head perfectly attached. No loose screws here.”

I set her back upright, and she glared at me. Bloodshot eyes never lie, but she’s fair—no arguments. Some say she’s high-maintenance. I say she’s high-satisfaction. She’s the only woman I know who can sit on a table all night and still be the life of the party… by not saying a single word.

“Does she… dance?” the bloke asked.

“Only when I pull her strings,” I said. “She’s a real mover… even if she can’t move her own legs.”

He chuckled. “Sounds like you’re quite attached.”

I nodded. “I am. She never nags, never complains, and honestly? She always puts her best foot forward… well, if she had feet.”

The bloke laughed awkwardly and walked away. My puppet? She just stared, eyes blazing. She didn’t need words. She had presence, charisma, and the uncanny ability to make me look like a smooth operator while sitting silently on a table.

I leaned in and whispered, “You’re one good woman, you know that?”

She didn’t respond. She never does. But I know she heard me. After all, she’s got ears… somewhere under that yarn hair.

And that’s the thing about her: no legs, no voice, no complaints… but somehow, she’s the only woman who really knows how to stand her ground. Yes I put a bag over her head to keep the dust out of her blood shot eyes.