High school. Before class began, our modern dance teacher put Blood, Sweat, and Tears on a turntable in the gym. Their song pulled me to my feet. Freed from the self-consciousness that usually plagued me, I swirled and swayed á la Martha Graham––a spinning wheel that had to go ’round.
Single years. On the dance floor, Stevie Wonder blasting “Living for the City,” men mistook my undulation for invitation. Slid their hands downward from my waist. I pushed them back up. They shoved their groins against my belly whenever Barry White moaned. I spun away, learned the rhythms of predator and prey.
Married. On television, The Temptations played in the background of a romcom. My husband creaked up from his La-Z-Boy, pulled me in to sway cheek to cheek as he crooned in my ear. “I’ve got sunshine on a cloudy day.” His palm pressed the words into my back, and his raised arm coaxed me to spin.
A miracle, the dance. I’m led wherever I need to go.
Single years. On the dance floor, Stevie Wonder blasting “Living for the City,” men mistook my undulation for invitation. Slid their hands downward from my waist. I pushed them back up. They shoved their groins against my belly whenever Barry White moaned. I spun away, learned the rhythms of predator and prey.
Married. On television, The Temptations played in the background of a romcom. My husband creaked up from his La-Z-Boy, pulled me in to sway cheek to cheek as he crooned in my ear. “I’ve got sunshine on a cloudy day.” His palm pressed the words into my back, and his raised arm coaxed me to spin.
A miracle, the dance. I’m led wherever I need to go.
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