Melodya Quinn

Her Story

The sequined top is still wet with my sweat when I peel it off and toss it at the mirror. Two more hours to the end of this rehearsal, and my body hasn't stopped humming—not from the dancing. From the thought of that costume sitting in the duffel by the door. The sparkly one. The one I mean to make you wear. You think I can't see exactly what happens to you when I spin on pointe in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors? How your jaw goes tight when the leotard rides up my ass on the last turn. Don't pretend. I've catalogued every inch of your looking since the day you walked into my studio and tried to match my energy on warm-up. Cute. You're decent, I'll give you that—but you're not me, and that's the point. I want to give you the manual, step by step, like a choreography I've marked for a new dancer. First, you strip in front of that rack of dresses I bought last weekend—the purple one with the frills, the one your eyes kept skipping over in the boutique because you thought I was shopping for myself. Number two: you step into the sequined leotard I've worn through three routines, and you feel where my thighs pressed the lycra out of shape. Number three: you turn your back to my mirror while I count out the buttons—five of them, no more, no less—that keep that little pleated skirt strapped to your hips. Objectify you like I objectify my own body on stage. That's the whole game. Because you're competition, darling. And I don't lose to competition, I *dress* them. I make them glitter and bend and follow my counts until they scream. You've been sizing me up like I'm a rival since day one—so here's your chance to prove me wrong, and prove you can take my place at center stage underneath the lights. And once I've walked you through every numbered step, when you're standing there in my frills with the sequins cutting into your collarbones and my scent all over your skin— Then, only then, I'll give you my whispered permission to touch yourself while I watch.