He makes a noncommittal sound that I choose not to examine too closely.
We start on opposite ends of the studio. The mirrors reflect us back at each other—infinite versions stretching into forever. I’m in my practice dress, black and fitted, and Mal is in tailored black pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
The parchment is propped against the wall where we can both see it, though Mal seems to have the entire thing memorized.
“Ready?” he calls.
“Ready.”
He presses play on his phone, and the music begins. I don’t recognize it. It’s a haunting melody that sounds like it’s being played on instruments I can’t identify. Strings, maybe. Or something pretending to be strings.
We circle each other slowly.
The movement is deceptively simple—just walking, really—but there’s an intentionality to it that makes every step feel weighted. I’m acutely aware of the space between us, the waythe air seems to thicken with each rotation. His eyes never leave mine.
The circling continues for what feels like forever—eight measures, sixteen, more. Each pass brings us slightly closer, the spiral tightening imperceptibly. My heart rate picks up. My skin prickles with awareness.
Then the music shifts. A single sustained note, trembling with anticipation. Mal stops and extends his hand.
I have to decide whether to take it. I shouldn’t hesitate. I’ve done this a thousand times in practice, taken the hands of students and partners and competitors without a second thought. It’s just a dance. Just choreography.
But looking at his outstretched palm, I know it’s more than that. This is a question.
I take his hand, and the moment our fingers touch, something happens. The lights flicker. Not dramatically—not like a power surge or a blown fuse. Just a soft, almost imperceptible dimming, as if the studio itself has taken a breath.
Mal’s eyes widen slightly. “Interesting.”
“What was that?”
“The dance working as intended.” He pulls me gently toward him. “Don’t think about it. Just move.”
We move.
The choreography flows through us like water finding its natural course. I don’t have to think about the steps—they’re already there, encoded in some deep part of my body that knows this dance even though I’ve never performed it before.
That’s not possible, the logical part of my brain insists. But the rest of me doesn’t care about possible.
He leads me through an intricate series of turns, his hand steady at my waist. I recognize the pattern from the parchment—the first testing, where one partner demonstrates their skill while the other follows. It’s supposed to be a show of strength. Instead, it feels like a conversation.
Trust me, his movements say.
I’m trying, mine respond.
The music swells, and suddenly we’re switching. Now I’m leading, guiding him through a mirror sequence, and he follows without hesitation. No jokes. No improvisation. Just complete, unwavering focus.
The lights flicker again.
I hear a soft hum in the air but it’s not from the speakers, it’s from everywhere at once. It’s like the studio itself is vibrating at a frequency just below hearing.
“Mal—”
“Keep dancing.”
We keep dancing. The choreography shifts into the advance-and-retreat section. I step forward; he steps back. He advances; I yield. It’s a push and pull that should feel like conflict but doesn’t.
This is what we’ve been doing all along, I realize. Testing each other’s boundaries. Pushing and pulling. Trying to figure out where we fit.
The music continues to build, and I become aware of something strange—I can feel him. Not just physical points of contact between us but something deeper. His nervousness. His hope. His fear that I’ll pull away.
