Forbidden Dance

It's a fictional retelling of my repressed feelings for one of my choreographers.

 

I am in love with my choreographer. I think it’s the way he talks. He speaks slowly, never raising his voice unless it’s to be heard above music. He makes eye contact with whomever he’s speaking to, and when he’s talking to all of us, he makes eye contact with each person individually for the same amount of time. His hands move when he speaks, and his body moves in ways I never thought possible.

No, he’s not an expert dancer, trained in the ways of ballet, hip-hop, lyrical, jazz, and modern dance. He’s just a free spirit who moves to what the music tells him. The other boy he choreographs with, James, moves just like him, and they drink either wine or beer before or during practice. I doubt their alcoholism – I think it just helps them think more clearly. The sweet smell of the liquor hints at my nostrils every now and then during rehearsal, and I can barely trace it.

They just have so much energy! Practice is scheduled really late at night, when no one else wants to use the gym, and it’s like the late hour gives them energy. I know now that we practice so late because it was literally the only time when we could all get together without conflicts of classes, other extracurricular activities, or other dances that we were in for the end-of-term show. But at the time, you could almost see the both of them come alive as it got closer and closer to midnight.

My choreographer, Carter, was attractive. He wears wire-rimmed glasses that outline his eyes just right, and dances barefoot. Carter and James have incredible visions for our dance, and make them a reality through scene exercises and asking about our feelings and thoughts constantly. I have never been in a dance like this before, and I fell in love with the idea before I fell in love with Carter.

I think it was after the second rehearsal. He had made eye contact with me during the entire thing, and performed the movement exercise right alongside me. Maybe it was the scent of beer on his person that intoxicated me, or it was just the sheer power of the energy he omitted when he moved – but I walked away lovesick and stumbling from the jello feeling in my legs. If there was one thing Carter and James could do right, it was make me sweat.

After the fifth practice, I realized that I was in fact in love with Carter. I can’t really pinpoint what exactly “does it” for me. Maybe his button-down shirt that is only buttoned halfway up. Maybe his complete relaxation at all times. Maybe his knowledge of yoga as an exercise. I don’t know what it is, but I always leave practice with visions of kisses and touches from his lips and fingertips dancing in my head.

Carter has a girlfriend. Her name is Megan. She’s gorgeous. One of the nicest people I have ever known. In the dance collective, she has the same sort of vision for her dancers as Carter, one no one really understands until it’s put to bodies. I saw them together at one of the “pre-shows” for all the dances involved in the collective, and I saw how easy they were together. He made her laugh, she made him laugh. They sat near each other, but didn’t touch so extravagantly like some couples have the tendency to do. They were just…easy, natural, comfortable.

I know for a fact that I should keep my latent lovesick feelings in check. If Carter was single, this would be a different issue. Alas, he has a girlfriend, and it’s someone I like. If she was a b***h this would be simpler. But she’s wonderful, nice and sweet – so I can’t kill her without feeling guilty, can’t harm her without fear of an entire campus coming after me, can’t even make her disappear without the knowledge that someone will know it was me. “Don’t you love Carter?” they would cry. “You disappeared Megan!”

My fear of her and general dislike for the “home wrecker” label keeps my emotions at bay.

However, for an hour every week, I get to stare at my gorgeous choreographer. I get to watch him watch us, listen to his feedback and see his excited dancing. My desire to jump him in the stairwell is going to have to stay that – a desire – and never surface for fear of getting myself in trouble. As gorgeous and engaging as he is, it’s not worth the pain. It’s not worth the inevitable destruction of the harmony of the dance.

I’m his dancer. I need to just do what he says, and numb everything else. No more loving Carter. No more staring adoringly into his eyes when he discusses thoughts and inner feelings about the dance. No more helpless acts to impress him. No more. I am done.

But I still have six more practices.

 

 

Author's Note

Does it sound natural?