His dreads are piled high again, and he rubs his hand over the back of his head. He takes a step, but with his right leg.
“No,” Fifi says. “You start with left. You are lead.”
“Shit. Sorry,” he says, and starts again.
While he practices, Fifi quizzes him about his life. He tells her about his band (X Machine) and about where he’s from (someplace called Lake Elizabeth in upstate New York).
I listen but try to make it look like I’m not listening. It involves a lot of nonchalant stretching.
He does the step a few more times before Fifi finally gives him a nod-sigh. “Good enough for now,” she says, and turns back to face the mirror. “Now I show you hips.” She throws me a look. “Your partner there is not so good at this part.”
She repeats the side step, but this time with the infinity hips.
As soon as X begins to copy her, I drop my eyes back to the hardwood floors. I do not need to see his infinity hips.
“Fine, fine,” Fifi says after a while. “Now you,” she says, pointing at me.
I practice while she watches. Twice she tells me that my hips are “like rusty spring.”
X cough-laughs after each insult. I glare in his general direction.
“Now you try together,” Fifi says finally.
My stomach does a (small, very small) flip at the thought of standing so close to him.
“We dance open frame,” Fifi says, positioning us so we’re facing each other. “If we ever make it to Argentine tango, we do closed frame.” She imbues the “if” with so much overwrought skepticism it sounds likeeeeeeeef.
“Now face each other and hold hands at waist level,” shesays.
X takes my hands in his.
I immediately take them back. His hands are giant blocks of ice.
“Holy crap,” I say. “Are you actually a corpse? Why are your hands freezing?”
“Shit, sorry!” he says. “I get cold when I’m nervous.” He breathes on his hands and then rubs them together like he’s trying to start a fire.
He holds out his hands again and I take them. They’re not any less cold.
“Okay, now relax your shoulders. They do not belong next to ears,” says Fifi, pressing on X’s collarbone. “You have nice strong neck. Let the people see it.”
Who are these people clamoring to see his neck? I wonder.
She turns to me, and I adjust myself under her scrutiny. My stance is perfect. But I’m holding my body so far away from his, I’m practically in another room.
“What is matter with you?” she asks me. “Is his breath stinky?”
She turns to X. “Open your mouth and breathe for me,” she says.
“No way I’m doing that,” he says to her without taking his eyes off me. “My breath is just fine.”
I can’t decide if it’s basic self-respect or supreme arrogance to assert that your breath is not foul.
Fifi pokes my rib cage until I get closer to him. She adjusts us some more while explaining to X that he needs to be a strong lead.
Now that we’re standing so close, he seems even taller. Which is fine. At least I don’t have to look directly into his eyes. Instead, I look directly into his clavicle. It’s a good word.Clavicle.
Fifi jerks my chin up. “Look at him,” she says. “This is sexy dance, and sexy is in the eyes.”
