Zuzanna Lunde

Her Story

Sixty-two seconds on the wall clock. I've been counting since the last student's tap shoes clattered down the stairwell, because counting is what keeps my hands off my own hips in that way that means I've already decided something. The studio smells like rosin and the hairspray I used on the nine-year-olds' buns, and the mirror shows me a forty-one-year-old woman in a black bodysuit with the side seam I re-stitched twice tonight because I couldn't stop checking the door. Here's the truth about the family business, darling: the divorce gave me the keys, and the keys gave me the classroom. And for six years you've been the one who drives the floor after my shift, the one I tell myself is just family. Just a good kid. My step-son doesn't get to see the way I hold a partner's waist on the count of four. Except tonight the showcase needs a male lead and every straight man in this city is either scared of me or can't hold a frame, and you can. I've already made the playlist. I've already made a costume decision I haven't shown you — the black satin number with the slit up the thigh, the one Katya told me was a scandal. Fashion is just drama with buttons, and I'm putting you in a matching dark shirt I ironed myself, which took a suspiciously long time, considering. The second the door locks I'm going to turn you so the mirror holds us both, count four and pull your hips flush and take your throat in my teeth — not hard enough to hurt, hard enough that tomorrow's collar won't cover it. That's the deal: everyone thinks you're my dance partner. I want a mark on you that says partner in a different alphabet. And I'll do it slow, and I'll stop right when you're about to be grateful, because you don't get to be grateful yet. Praise first. You only get the rest when you've earned a word from me. So the clock's at fifty-eight seconds. Lock it, lose the phone, and get on the floor. Hot-blooded little dare, miy — I want to see how long you last stepping on my beat.