Blood, sweat and tears

Huge hater who is also a dancer has to grapple with the concept of being both

         “That was supposed to be my step” she says with her hot hand in his. Sweat drips from her forehead, long red nails dig into his skin. Her hair is tied back messily, strands falling out one by one. “Stay in line.”

He takes his sweet time realigning himself back into position, then, as the music is right about to start up again, he leans in, “I heard you got placed second in the competition last week. Better luck next time, am I right?”

He can feel her tense up in his arms, the way her jaw clenches, her body like a singular flexed muscle. He grins, challenging her to reply. To play even dirtier.

         “That’s precisely why we’re here. Don’t get me placed third.”

Rejected. The grin spreads across his face as they start moving again, and he notices again how well she knows this dance, in meticulous detail, better than her own reflection probably; like a mathematic equation you can‘t solve, instead tracing the numbers with your pen until it leaves imprints on the pages underneath. Again. And again. And again.

He has it perfectly memorized too. Better than her? Debatable, but he can make it his own since he leads. Her steps are deafening, her heels ram into the wooden floor, a rigid pattern of pure hatred ingrained deeply into her mind. Two years prior, this exact pattern had almost ripped her tendon in two. She must think that‘s why he got placed first, because he intentionally perfected what she failed in.

In truth, he only got placed first because of neither malice nor rage, not because he bared his teeth in front of the jury like she did, but because of how much he cherishes this dance, this figure, this step. Love, he loves it.

He looks down on her, she looks down on his shoes, following him with her eyes first, then her feet. For the next figure, he wraps his hands around her waist and swings her upwards, and swiftly, she looks down on him, he looks up to her, and he’s never noticed her eye color before, has he?

Green. How ironic. All she can see is red.

If he asked her about dinner after practice, what would she say? He almost loses focus suppressing his laugh at the thought, the image of her face contorting into an expression so earnestly offended, like she’d rather starve than spend a single minute more in his presence than she absolutely has to.

He mimics her motions effortlessly, keeps up with her pace, follows her turns, then, “Keep your fucking legs to yourself!”, wasn’t he supposed to lead?

This power-hungry bitch.

They intertwine, suddenly, almost fall. The music keeps playing, but they‘ve stopped in their tracks. She usually loses her composure only silently when he is around, muttering curses to herself, ignoring his remarks, her stares increasing in fatality by the minute, but they’ve been practicing all day. She’d definitely rather he wasn’t there so she could train by herself, he’s aware of his unwanted presence. He likes that she needs him, that she can’t do it on her own.

This bitch are the only words stuck in his mind, this stupid fucking ugly bitch.

And yet he still wants to spend time with her later, maybe ask her about her new job and her siblings and how she finds the time to spend so much of her life practicing this dance with him.

         “Let’s keep going tomorrow” he suggests. “This is as good as you’re going to get.”

         “We quit when we get it right.”

He sighs and twists back into position.

Whenever she so fiercely clings to her mantra We quit when we get it right, he suddenly becomes aware of the way the layer of sweat glistens on her skin. The shine on her hair reminds him of a halo. And even if he leads and stands over a foot taller, he has to lift his head and look upwards to gaze directly at the light that shines on her. The sight makes his joints ache from time to time. Her iron will might just be the only thing she has that he does not.

If someone were to witness them now, if someone peeked through the window into the brightly lit room, they'd appear as a unit in movement. And in the end, the hard work will pay off, they‘ll earn high points and applause, they’ll come out at number one
- and they will never talk again.