I stand in the door, motionless as snow, quiet as a mouse. The dance instructor sees me, but she does not motion for me to enter. A cluster of co-ed dancers are draped over the bars, floors, and mats in the corner. No one dares break the silence, the heavy mood of intense concentration and furious passion as Felipe runs through his solo again for the 200th time. He is close to perfection, becoming one with the choreography, close to being intimate with it as a lover. It however, isn’t. I am.
Felipe and I began dating two months ago; I was smitten, a laundromat crush. However, he is handsome as he is terrible at keeping secrets. He was vague about his job, his late hours. We could never return to his apartment after a date. I broke Felipe’s trust and privacy by following him after he left my apartment this morning. I had to know where he was going. Things were going well, and I did not want to invest my adoration in a man that would not trust me.
I had braced myself for what I might find – maybe he was returning home to a wife and kids. Maybe he sold drugs. Perhaps he worked at an abortion clinic. Maybe he cleaned up after dead bodies or worked in a morgue. Maybe he euthanized unwanted pets. Maybe he was ashamed to be a dishwasher, or a telemarketer, or a car salesman. Lo and behold, my secretive boyfriend was …a ballet dancer. Talk about anti-climactic. A rush of relief pushed aside worry, allowing romantic intrigue to blossom in its place.
I couldn’t just stand in front of the building, leave, and not see him dance. So, I snuck upstairs and accidentally witnessed one of the most beautiful displays of human movement I’d ever seen. My heart thudded in my chest. If Felipe could manipulate his limbs and muscles in such a way, no doubt in bed our acts would be a performance, not sex.
Any second now the bubble of Felipe’s concentration will burst and he’ll notice me filling the doorway to this dance studio. I should move; I should leave. I can’t. It might make a sound. Catch-22.