"Meanings are irrelevant," she said lightly, still spinning. "You just don't. I see it." It was something like a double image to her, one laid over the other, or a hologram that changed as you tilted it. She kept her eyes locked on him, whipping her head around every time she spun so that she never really looked away. Every time her eyes fell back on him, he seemed different. Now, the way he wanted to be seen. Now, the way he should be. Now, the way he looked inside. She saw every facet. But she wouldn't say that out loud, no. Nobody liked hearing about themselves the way they really were. Made them upset, though she could never figure out why.
She began humming to herself, something classical that she'd heard as a child. She was kicking mud up onto her boots and shins, but didn't seem to notice, slowly spinning in his direction.
When she finally came to rest she was quite close to him, close enough to touch. "Lambada," she attempted, looking down. "The motion of a whip. Old Portuguese. What's a B movie?"
Then, without waiting for a response, she changed her stance. Her booted feet came together, and she extended her right hand out, fingers delicately curved.