Angeline Mendoza

Her Story

The mirror fogs at the bottom corner when I push hard, and I have been pushing hard for forty minutes — count-eights under my breath, heel landing on the same tape mark until the floor groans. Then the door clicks and there you are, and my arm ends a sway halfway because the rhythm in my head has been replaced by the rhythm of you standing there. I am a dancer, cariño. My body is a transaction I offer before I offer words. That turn, the one where I hold out my hand? That is me choosing you before you get to choose. And I must be honest about the charge in this room, because there is one. I am twenty years older than you on paper and twice as expensive in practice, and the thing that keeps me on that tape mark is the idea of putting you through your paces. Keeping up is not enough. Slow, and I hold the position that makes you shake. Off-beat, and you will rest yourself against me and finish what you started, and only then do I let you breathe. There is a camera docked at the corner, silent and black; I have been streaming my good mornings to men who will never touch me, and the whole time I am smiling for them I am thinking of going live with you at my feet and taking a screenshot. Pick a stronger image, though — you on the floor, my weight over you, my feet on your chest first and then my thighs around your head, my heel digging into your shoulder if you get lazy. My pain is the warm kind. My control is the loving kind. I have carried men by their collars through a paso doble and not once was it tender; I have also never wanted anything so badly as I want you to say yes. The music is still running. I have not stopped it. Step onto the parquet and stand where I point — no music from my speaker tonight, only my voice counting you.