I sat on the tilting cement steps of the saggy old house’s saggy old porch waiting for R yesterday, secluded from the busy street by monstrous overgrown juniper bushes that smell faintly like cat pee, hoping to not catch any whiffs of the cat shit from the area nearby used as a litterbox by all the neighborhood cats. By tilting my head up, I could see the street for any sign of her, and also avoid the unpleasant funky moldy-leaves smell in favor of the cool air, and the sun filtered down through the trees.
I had already killed some time by strolling to the crusty market down the street to buy a bottle of cheap red wine, avoiding the eyes of hot dirty sweaty working men standing in line for their Molson Ice. I was to meet R at five o’clock and the traffic patterns, people on bicycles, commuter cars, plus the timely number 40 bus roaring by at a fast clip all told me it was five.
Small grey kitty cat walked around the corner, spied me, froze with a look of surprise and big yellow eyes and then walked creeping backwards away from me, like I might reach out and grab it or something. I might have, but just to scratch kitty-ears.
It is uncommon for R to be late. She is one of the most punctual people I know, and I know she will never forget to meet me, especially not for dancing, so I felt mildly worried, but not annoyed, that I had been waiting for twenty, thirty minutes for her arrival. Also my concern included the fact that she never locks her door unless she is gone for a few days; as she said, what would people steal? Her desk, her bedroll, her 30 year old sewing machine, or her belly dancing outfits? But the door was locked.
So I sat on the cold tilting cement steps until Jesi sauntered up the walk. We exchanged worries and decided to drive to my house for a multitude of reasons, foremost to call R on her cellphone. It turned out, a plumber had worked in her apartment while she was at her work that morning, and he had locked the door knob behind him. She hadn’t told him to leave the door unlocked, and she didn’t have her keys, so after walking the twenty blocks home, she had to turn around and walk the twenty blocks back to work to fetch her spare key. I must have arrived immediately after she started her walk back to work.
Jesi & I returned to her apartment, ready to dance.
Tuesdays are Dance Days. We spent two full hours in R’s kitchen working out moves and step patterns, practicing where and what and when, and sometimes why. The choreography is built from the beginning of the song to the end, and in order to keep our place for a new move, added to the established moves, it is often necessary to do the whole song, from the beginning, again, and again, and again. And once more. And wait, I think we were off there, let’s start it over. Again. Let’s do it once more, girls. And while it has the benefit of affording much-needed practice for the beginning of the piece, it also means the beginning of a piece gets much more practice than the end of a piece. But then practice makes perfect.
We look great, if I do say so myself; our shapes and movements are even more complimentary now that we have been dancing together for a couple of months. Walking to class we found ourselves in our regular formation, with J in the middle, R to the right, me to the left. We giggled about it like dancing girls.
After two hours of choreo practice, we walked to the School of Ballet, where our instructor made us sweat some more. She still has us doing intricate traditional step patterns, and with my two left feet I often get turned around but I am getting it. I’m built to shimmy and undulate, not travel-step. Also I think the 12/8 rhythm confuses me. At least that’s my excuse, although when I get all the steps correct I feel pleased with myself. Practice, practice.
After class, riding on that sweaty-girl rubber-leg high we all seem to get, R & I pulled on our shoes & admired Jesi from across the room, and decided she was definitely a list of “s” words—snakey, sensual, sassy, sultry, and sexy. She doesn’t seem to have a ribcage or backbone, just these nice soft (another “s”) curves that slide (“s”) effortlessly. I think we embarrassed her but it was fun and she didn’t seem too upset.
I love Dance Day. Four complete hours of dancing. Went home and drank the bottle of wine with my sweetheart.
I had already killed some time by strolling to the crusty market down the street to buy a bottle of cheap red wine, avoiding the eyes of hot dirty sweaty working men standing in line for their Molson Ice. I was to meet R at five o’clock and the traffic patterns, people on bicycles, commuter cars, plus the timely number 40 bus roaring by at a fast clip all told me it was five.
Small grey kitty cat walked around the corner, spied me, froze with a look of surprise and big yellow eyes and then walked creeping backwards away from me, like I might reach out and grab it or something. I might have, but just to scratch kitty-ears.
It is uncommon for R to be late. She is one of the most punctual people I know, and I know she will never forget to meet me, especially not for dancing, so I felt mildly worried, but not annoyed, that I had been waiting for twenty, thirty minutes for her arrival. Also my concern included the fact that she never locks her door unless she is gone for a few days; as she said, what would people steal? Her desk, her bedroll, her 30 year old sewing machine, or her belly dancing outfits? But the door was locked.
So I sat on the cold tilting cement steps until Jesi sauntered up the walk. We exchanged worries and decided to drive to my house for a multitude of reasons, foremost to call R on her cellphone. It turned out, a plumber had worked in her apartment while she was at her work that morning, and he had locked the door knob behind him. She hadn’t told him to leave the door unlocked, and she didn’t have her keys, so after walking the twenty blocks home, she had to turn around and walk the twenty blocks back to work to fetch her spare key. I must have arrived immediately after she started her walk back to work.
Jesi & I returned to her apartment, ready to dance.
Tuesdays are Dance Days. We spent two full hours in R’s kitchen working out moves and step patterns, practicing where and what and when, and sometimes why. The choreography is built from the beginning of the song to the end, and in order to keep our place for a new move, added to the established moves, it is often necessary to do the whole song, from the beginning, again, and again, and again. And once more. And wait, I think we were off there, let’s start it over. Again. Let’s do it once more, girls. And while it has the benefit of affording much-needed practice for the beginning of the piece, it also means the beginning of a piece gets much more practice than the end of a piece. But then practice makes perfect.
We look great, if I do say so myself; our shapes and movements are even more complimentary now that we have been dancing together for a couple of months. Walking to class we found ourselves in our regular formation, with J in the middle, R to the right, me to the left. We giggled about it like dancing girls.
After two hours of choreo practice, we walked to the School of Ballet, where our instructor made us sweat some more. She still has us doing intricate traditional step patterns, and with my two left feet I often get turned around but I am getting it. I’m built to shimmy and undulate, not travel-step. Also I think the 12/8 rhythm confuses me. At least that’s my excuse, although when I get all the steps correct I feel pleased with myself. Practice, practice.
After class, riding on that sweaty-girl rubber-leg high we all seem to get, R & I pulled on our shoes & admired Jesi from across the room, and decided she was definitely a list of “s” words—snakey, sensual, sassy, sultry, and sexy. She doesn’t seem to have a ribcage or backbone, just these nice soft (another “s”) curves that slide (“s”) effortlessly. I think we embarrassed her but it was fun and she didn’t seem too upset.
I love Dance Day. Four complete hours of dancing. Went home and drank the bottle of wine with my sweetheart.
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