Communicate with the Body

All characters are over the age of 18. This is a work of fiction, and nothing is real.

_____

"No, it's your left foot first. And it's quick, quick, then slow."

The couple next to us was fighting again. The woman, who was at least half a foot taller than her very bald companion, was going red in the face as she hissed at him.

"--And stop stepping on my toes, I'm in heels!"

The poor guy didn't even look like he knew what he was doing wrong. He just had this dumb smile plastered on his face as his wife berated him over the music.

Classic, I thought to myself.

This was the typical Thursday night crowd at Quickfoot Dance Studio.

Every week, they liked to promote this thing called 'date night', where they sold group lessons at a discount for all couples. It was supposed to be fun and romantic, where you would learn the basics of a bunch of different styles and grow closer to your partner.

In reality, it was just where desperate, middle-aged couples went to try and rekindle whatever dying sparks were left by trying something they'd seen online.

Baldy and his angry wife were no exception.

The music was still going, and the couple joined their hands to try again.

Quick, quick, sloooow, quick, quick, --

I winced as the guy made the same mistake again. He'd somehow put his left foot forward twice, stomping on his wife's toes, and earning him another scalding insult. The woman huffed and threw down her arms, fed up.

I was starting to feel bad for them when I nearly tripped over my own foot.

"Hugo! Watch it!"

That was Tegan, my girlfriend.

You see, Tegan and I were also experiencing the sad-couple-tries-dancing phenomenon.

We'd met just over a year ago during some random required seminar, and I remember my first impression of her being that she was the brightest, most energetic person I'd ever seen.

It wasn't until about a month into that semester, after we accidentally ran into each other on the street as we were both skipping class, that we actually started talking. We hit it off immediately.

I learned that she was pursuing a PhD. track, which sounded a lot cooler than my 'I don't really know what I'm doing after college'. She was from sunny California; I grew up in Michigan. She liked her coffee early in the morning, and I liked stacking redbulls at 3 a.m. She liked playing tennis, and I -- well, you get the idea.

We were each other's antitheses, and yet, it was like none of these differences mattered.

I fell for her like an anchor in the ocean.

It was to the point where I couldn't find any faults in her -- I liked everything. I dug her cheery attitude, and I liked that she thought I was funny. I liked that she was blonde, and I liked that she went to the gym. More than anything, she always had some new activity to try, or an exhibit to go see, and spending time with her made me feel like I was seeing the city for the very first time.

By December, I was completely smitten. I asked her out on Christmas Day, under the big, light-up tree at the local park. By some miracle, she said yes, and it all seemed perfect.

But the thing about perfection is that it doesn't really exist.

It didn't take very long for us to realize that we had very, very different expectations for each other.

A relationship should be exactly the same as being friends, except we'd just throw in some more boyfriend-girlfriend stuff, like making out. At least, that's what I thought it meant.

Apparently, for her, it meant I had to change basically everything about myself: her parents wouldn't like my undecided career path, so I should hurry up and choose one. Also, I should start going to the gym because I was a little too skinny. She liked bigger guys, didn't I know? Oh, and could I please stop drinking Redbull? It's disgusting. Etc. etc.

Basically, it was the exact opposite of perfect.

It dragged on like that for another four months until, inevitably, we had a huge fight. I told her that I was getting tired of being told what to do, and she told me I was dragging her down.

"Dragging you down??" I'd asked, shocked.

"Yes! I thought when we started going out that-- that you'd change, but you didn't! You aren't!" Tegan had replied.

"So I've been 'dragging you down' since the very beginning, that's what you're saying."

"That's not what I said. I said you're dragging me down, now. You can still change."

"Stop saying that. What if I don't want to change, huh? Why do I have to change for you?"

"Because."

"Because what?"

"God, stop being so annoying. Because I said so!"

"Oh, that's just great. You know --"

After that, it was just another screaming match, which she won because if there's one thing I can't stand, it's saying the same thing over and over again.

We made up haphazardly, in a mostly physical way. We agreed we needed something to shake us up. Something to make us feel like we did when we were just friends -- something fun.

And that's how we ended up here, tripping over each other on 'date night' at Quickfoot Dance Studio. Because apparently that's what you do when you think your relationship is about to go bust, but you still have some hope left.

Which brings me back to the case at hand -- Tegan was glaring at me for fucking up our rhythm.

"My bad," I said, getting back on beat.

"It's fine, it's just-- can you focus, Hugo?" Tegan whined. "It's embarrassing."

Embarrassing. There it was. So I'm dragging her down, AND I'm embarrassing.

"Sure. Yeah," I said with a sigh.

Tegan didn't look like she was having fun either. There was none of the peppy energy I'd wanted to reconjure through this activity. Instead, there was only a kind of tired expression on her face. My hand was on her hip, and hers were on my shoulder, but it's like she wasn't even there -- we were just going through the motions.

Everything felt cold.

"Do you want to just go?" I asked for the third time.

"What? No, we already paid. Let's just stay," she muttered.

"Okay."

A part of me even wished that she would yell at me, like Baldy's wife. At least then I wouldn't feel this awful, sinking feeling, like watering a plant that I already know is dead.

As if on cue, Baldy made yet another silly mistake (this time, he'd stepped forward instead of back, accidentally belly-bumping his wife). But before she could start her third bout of verbal abuse, the music switched off, and the teacher stepped in.

"Okaaaaay, everybody! Attention here, please!"

The teacher's voice rang out around the practice room, and everyone turned. She spoke with an accent, and I remembered seeing on her bio on the studio's website that she was from Austria. Her name was Ms. Alenko.

"First of all, I was watching all of you, and you were doing a very, very good job!" she said, clapping a few times and starting a quick round of applause among the class.

"But I also have a few tips," she continued. She raised her arms and gestured for Baldy to step forward to the front. "Please, will you be my volunteer?"

He nodded enthusiastically and grabbed her arms with his.

"So, let's go over the hold again!" Ms. Alenko announced.

Her voice had a unique rhythmic quality, and it wasn't too high. I enjoyed listening to her explain things.

"Gentles!" -- that's what she called us guys -- "make sure your elbows are high, and your shoulders are relaxed. Your hand must be strong on the lady's shoulder blade."

She readjusted Baldy's arm so that it rested firmly against her back.

"Ladies, your hand must land delicately on your gentleman's upper arm. But do not just let it rest there -- we must hold up our own weight."

She gracefully lowered her arm, barely touching Baldy's shoulder. There were dark sweat stains at his armpits and on his chest, but she hardly even blinked. Instead, she looked at everyone but him, patiently explaining to the class what the form should look like.

"Now, only with this proper form do we move. Watch the feet, and remember... Communicate with the body!"

Everyone said the last part with her. It was her motto.

The couple began to move, and the sight was almost comical.

And it wasn't just because Ms. Alenko was classically good-looking while Baldy was, well, bald. It was also because of how Ms. Alenko's back was bent at an impossible angle, and her neck arced out languidly, showing off a strong jawline. Her heels made her look tall and lithe, and each step melted into the next.

Compared to her effortless, silent moves, Baldy looked like a baby elephant, hulking and stumbling, being dragged along by the smaller woman's fluidity.

She talked as she danced around the room, and it was like watching a mother stringing along her useless son.

"Quick, quick, slow! Watch the feet! Left, right, left! Good!"

Baldy was tripped along, but his wife, who was standing alone with the rest of us, looked just about ready to leave. She was clenching her teeth so tight, I thought her jaw might snap.

A few of the other couples also gave each other looks as they watched the demonstration.

"There goes another one," Tegan muttered to me.

"Victim number five," I nodded.

Because that's how it always was with these demonstrations. Over the last three lessons, Tegan and I had watched the same thing happen over and over: Ms. Alenko would choose a random male student to be her dummy partner for the day, and remain utterly unconcerned as the guy stared at her all starry-eyed, infuriating his wife or girlfriend.

"Ugh, look at him," Tegan continued. "Look at how giddy he is just because he gets to hold her a little. So fucking creepy. No wonder his wife hates him."

I looked again, and indeed, Baldy looked like he was having the time of his life. His face was all sweaty, but he had this weird grin, like he was leering at the teacher.

"You think he's the one who suggested coming here?" I asked.

"Oh, for sure," Tegan scoffed. "I bet half these dudes are here just for her. You know, it's her fault, too. She doesn't have to be so touchy with them."

I spotted a bulge in Baldy's trousers, and I tapped Tegan, pointing conspirationally.

"Oh. My God," she whispered-shouted, a smile playing at her lips. "That is unreal."

"Maybe that's why he can't dance for shit -- 'cause he's so distracted," I chuckled.

"Oh, Baldy, what are we going to do with you?"

"At this rate, his wife's definitely gonna dump him."

"Or just kill him."

"Maybe dump then kill him."

"... God, he's just so ew!" Tegan giggled, and my heart swelled momentarily.

When was the last time we laughed together like this? Maybe these dance classes were worth something after all, I thought.

Throughout our little banter, Ms. Alenko kept dancing and explaining. And honestly, I don't think she would have stopped, even if she knew what we were saying. There was something genuine about the way she dedicated herself to teaching us, even though it was just a 'date night' and not a real class.

She swished and swooped, making the basic steps we were learning look like polished choreography.

Watching the serene, neutral expression on her face, it was as if she knew her disastrous effect on these couples, but simply refused to care. After all, she had done nothing wrong -- it was not her fault how these men looked at her.

So instead, she just danced, danced, and danced her way away from all of it.

Eventually, Ms. Alenko stopped and stepped out of Baldy's arms. But it was already too late. When he walked back to his wife, she just stood motionless with her arms crossed, not even looking at him. He didn't even notice her anger, just kept smiling to himself, like he'd done something impressive.

"Thank you for helping me demonstrate," Ms. Alenko said to him obliviously, before turning back to the rest of the class. "Now, let's all try. Two more songs!"

Tegan and I tango'd, and this time it was slightly more bearable. We even laughed a little more at Baldy's expense. I even thought for a split second that maybe things were back to normal.

Eventually, class ended, and everyone filed out, thanking the teacher at the door.

"Good job! See you next week!" she said, addressing each of us with identical cheer.

"Thank you, see you," I replied, and Ms. Alenko smiled. She had a pretty smile. Not classically sweet like Tegan's, but I thought it filled her slender face nicely.

When we got out of the elevator and stepped out into the night, I shivered. These classes always ended so late, and there was a chill in the air, despite it already being May.

I turned to Tegan. Under the pale street light, her blonde hair looked almost brown, like it'd had its color drained out of it. Was it always that color?

Remembering how we'd laughed together during class -- the first time in weeks -- I was just about to tell her how glad I was that we decided to take these classes.

"Hey, I'm really--" I started.

"Ugh! I can't believe we still have eight more weeks of this!" she cut me off. "We should never have signed up. I don't even like dancing that much."

I deflated. Suddenly, I felt stupid for hoping.

"I know, right? But we already paid for it, so I guess we have to go," I chuckled.

We walked for a bit, then took different subways home.

*****

That night, I dreamed my first dream of Ms. Alenko.

I dreamt of her voice, saying my name in that accent.

Hugo.

I dreamt of the way her heels clicked against the floor as she swayed and rocked to the music. In my dream, it was just her and me alone in the dark studio, just looking at each other.

There was nothing between us, but neither of us moved. The air was thick with pressure.

Finally, I felt my dream self raise his arms, welcoming her to dance. She smiled, her teeth gleaming in the dark.

Tegan wasn't there, and I didn't feel guilty.

*****

The class for the following week was a lot of the same. Ms. Alenko continued instructing us on the Tango, the fineries of which still eluded many of us.

We spent the first half of class reviewing what we had already learned the previous week:

Quick, quick, slow. Keep your back straight and your arms high. Core engaged, shoulders relaxed. And most important of all, her motto: communicate with the body!

We practiced some of the moves individually in the mirror, which covered the entire right-hand wall from top to bottom. There, the differences between all of our skill levels became clearer.

Some, like Baldy, still required constant doting from the teacher. They'd stumble, and trip, and look around all bewildered, like they didn't even know what was happening, and Ms. Alenko would swoop in and try to fix them.

Others, like Tegan, hardly needed any help at all, relying on natural athleticism to pick up new moves in just a few moments. She'd always been flexible and coordinated, so I guess it made sense. She almost looked bored as she waited for people like Baldy to catch up so she could learn the next thing.

I was somewhere in the middle, but I'm proud to say I think I was one of the better students. At least, among the guys. Before meeting Tegan, I might've been a lot worse off, but she'd forced me into a more active lifestyle, so I wasn't completely lost. I think it also helped that I was naturally a bit taller, so my posture didn't have to be ramrod like Ms. Alenko's, in order to look okay.

And I guess that's why she chose me this week.

"Okay, everybody! Attention here, please!" she called out, switching off the music.

"I think it's time to move on to a new step! Last week, we did the basic step, yes?"

She started walking around the room, reminding us what the step looked like.

"This week, we will learn what I like to call the Trouble Step," she said as she danced. "As you know, the dance floor has a flow, so that the many couples do not bump into each other. It goes counter-clockwise, like this."

We watched as she illustrated her point, whirling around us in a wide circle.

"The basic step only takes us forward. But sometimes, we must turn. A wall here. A mirror there. Another couple in the way. This is when we use the Trouble Step!"

She completed a basic step, then instead of going forward again, she rocked backward, swooped her hips, and swiveled ninety degrees.

"Now! To show how it should look, with a partner!" she said.

She paused and scanned the room. Baldy perked up, but she didn't choose him. Instead, her eyes landed on me. Ms. Alenko smiled.

She lifted her arms, spreading them, beckoning.

"You. Please, come here. Hugo, was it?"

I froze.

"Go, she's calling you," Tegan whispered, jabbing my side.

I stumbled forward as the rest of the class watched. Glancing back, I gave Tegan a worried look. I didn't know what exactly I was worried about, but I was. I felt my ears go hot.

Maybe I didn't want to look stupid in front of the class, like all the others had. Maybe it was something about the already precarious fragility of my relationship with Tegan.

Either way, this demonstration was going to fuck something up, I knew it.

I cleared my throat and turned to the teacher.

I lifted my arms and opened my left hand, showing her my palm, just as I'd been taught. The open hand was supposedly an invitation to the woman, and Ms. Alenko smiled and stepped forward, accepting it.

Her hand slipped into mine. It was small and slender, but I could feel a sinewy strength in it.

"Good," she said. In her accent, she said it with two o's like it was spelled instead of with a 'u' sound. "Now what next?"

I reached around Ms. Alenko's side, and she casually tossed her hair over her shoulder, out of the way. Usually, it was up in a bun, but today it cascaded all the way down to her lower back in a neat, auburn wave.

I placed my right hand gently above her ribs. I basically hovered, not even daring to touch her directly. I looked behind me at Tegan. She was watching me carefully.

Ms. Alenko shook her head and grabbed me by the forearm, pressing my hand into her back. She was wearing a tight-fitting black top under a thin, flowy shawl, and I could feel her shoulder blade through it. She felt warm, and impossibly light, like I could pick her up with one hand if I wanted to. I felt her breathe.

I suddenly remembered my dream, and the hairs on my neck stood up.

Ms. Alenko stepped in even closer, until I felt her right hip on mine, her leg pressing against me. Up close, she was even shorter than I'd thought; even with her heels, she only came up to my nose.

"Your right hand must be strong. Firm," she said, holding my arm against her back for emphasis.

Then she leaned back, arching her back expertly.

"Hold me. Tighter, properly," she said, quieter than her usual teacher voice, as if only to me. "Yes. Like that."

She turned her head to look at the class, her body still pressed against mine so as not to break our hold.

"We call this hold the flower and frame, yes?" she explained to everyone, "He is my frame. I hang from him, and he presents me to the crowd. He must be a strong, dependable structure."

I kept my face carefully blank as she continued her mini-lecture.

I tried not to think about how I could feel the vibrations through her back as she talked. Holding her, I could feel that her entire body, from the tip of her toe to the top of her head, was coiled and primed, ready to spring at a moment's notice. Under her top, I could see the outline of a smooth, taut belly. Everything was built for efficient, powerful mobility.

She had a dancer's body.

I quickly looked away, staring at the overhead lights instead.

"-- this is how dancers must hold one another," Ms. Alenko finished. Then, almost privately to me, she added. "And now, Hugo, we move."

It turned out that examining the light fixtures meant I had no clue what was going on when Ms. Alenko started dancing. She stepped confidently backward, and her leg slid against mine because I hadn't stepped forward fast enough. I clomped after her. She stepped again, and I tried to follow.