Tyler smirks back. “And Iknowyou never lie. I’m loving the sass!”
He ticks off the essential burlesque rules and basic choreography of the three songs. He reminds me that like show choir, it’s about sync and rhythm, except this time I’m supposed to let my body follow the fabric curves of my dress.
“This...” he says, gesturing to my bustle with his fan, “blooms out for a reason. Follow it. And when in doubt, stick it out.”
I giggle.
He plays “Express,” bringing out a chair to show me how to kick up in the air and spin my rear amid the beats. (Me:Whee!) During Michael Bublé’s “Feeling Good,” he leads, telling me at what points I’ll be spinning in someone’s arms. (Tyler:But it’s burlesque, so the women are really in charge. Men are YOUR props!) Little by little, I feel an inner humming, and my body follows. And by the time we get to Britney Spears’s “Circus,” I’m singing. (Tyler:Now we know who’s listened tothis fifty million timeswhen no one else is in the car!)Pieces of me I haven’t felt in twenty years awaken. August never pressured me into performing tonight. He opened a door, but I willingly chose to walk through.
“I just might be able to do this...” I mutter as I mimic Tyler’s sexy straddling of a chair before stomping my heel on the seat and twirling a long red ribbon.
“Might?You’ve got it. Just go with everything. And that pretty bra...”
I cock my eyebrow.
“It’s your show. No one’s going to make you do anythingyou don’t want to. But I’mjust saying,if it feels right to rip off that thing and show your fierce beauty to the world—you fucking do it!”
We’re standing on the stage in the darkness. I’m poised with my ostrich fan flared out across my chest. There’s about twelve of us onstage, half in cranberry corsets and half in vests and bowler caps. One of the vested dancers positions himself beside me, where we’ll do a little waltzy thing when the music starts.
I try not to look at the crowd. It’s an old nerve-calming technique from my show choir days—don’t look, just focus on my world up here. Nonetheless, my heart pounds.
“Looking good, Dr. Wells,” August whispers from beside me with a wink.
I do a double take in the shadows. Black liner accentuates his eyes, and a bowler cap covers his hair. He sure was spot-on about the naughty vest. Black with sparkly silver rivulets threaded throughout the fabric like a night sky, its one and only purpose is to accentuate August Dansworth’s bare, beautiful, toned arms.
I gawk like a fish.
The “Feeling Good” melody starts and a soloist in a vest costume belts out the first stanza.
August takes me in his arms as I try to remember the steps. But I stumble, then move against him when I should move back, move back too early as he pulls me in. The fan feels heavy and awkward in my right hand. We’re wildly out of sync and it’s Philip’s voice I hear in my head.
When are we going to take those dancing lessons, Lizzie?
I freeze with sad regret.
“We’re swaying now,” August whispers against my ear as the beat picks up, and I’m pulled back to the present. He dips medramatically over his bent leg, then I rise, swinging my fan over his shoulder before I melt into him and then back again.
Sure, Philip and I swayed at some wedding receptions, but we neverreallydanced. Not like this. That was a world I left behind after high school.
Again, I try to refocus as we dance past the soloist, all the couples forming a wide circle.
Follow your curves, Tyler mouths to me as he sways gracefully past with his vested partner.
I close my eyes, inhaling August’s fabric and faint floral cologne as he grips my hand, twirling me away from him. I twirl back, delightfully like a yo-yo. I push away all thoughts except the present, feeling the weight of the bustle, my breasts under the fancy bra.
As the song ends, August and I twirl and spin and dip into a strong finish.
“Bravo!” he whispers as we bow breathlessly onstage.
I’m definitely warmed up by the next song.
Gertie sings, and the corsets mostly perform with chairs while the vests dance and twirl around us like a spinning constellation. I stomp my sparkly heel on the chair seat, swinging my hips, catching Tyler’s eye from beside me before we twirl on the seats.
I’m out of breath, but far from exhausted. I suppose the stimulating gummy could still be strumming through my veins or the sloe gin must have loosened me up. But I’m happy, at ease, and confident.
The final line hits, and while the vests kneel at the corners of the stage, I mimic the corsets as we straddle our chairs one more time.
We’re approaching the last chant, and we chair dancers allbring our hands to our chests. Some anticipatory cheers sound from the audience.
