by Aurora Huiza

Sam didn’t respond to the video I sent of a monkey some farmer had dressed in denim shorts, standing in an empty field, eating a ripe strawberry with two hands. The monkey’s eyes glimmered green, glanced at the camera. He didn’t respond 3 hours later when I said sorry. We’d agreed, no talking. He didn’t respond the hour after either when I caved and messaged i’ll get out of ur hair i’m just having a hard time without talking, i feel like a different person. To which he replied with a relatively formal it’s cool sorry ur having a hard time, if u still want ur shoes back we can figure that out and then it was silence between us for two weeks. 

Should I say that I want them? I asked Isabelle. 

Not another word, she said. About him, or the shoes. 

Much of that year was spent in my college dorm, watching his location on my phone. He’d forgotten to un-share it. I opened Find My Friends, waited for it to load. The map appeared in dark mode, the crinkled edges of continents. Then it zoomed in, flung inward at the city in a way that made my stomach turn, the circle of him—his initial S inside of it. He was always there late at the Cuban café, likely flirting with the blonde barback girl who’d given me this incredulous look one time, like she couldn’t believe my very presence, what was I doing there? Who did I know at the café, but also on earth, what was my right? I didn’t really care about the girl, I cared about the secret. There was some secret, I knew, something small but meaningful that Sam had shared with her, that had infused her with the confidence to look at me like that. The same secret that had prompted him to break up with me. Even if it wasn’t her, he’d be seeing someone else, I knew he would, and that was his right. Everybody had rights. 

I lived in a dorm with Isabelle, who kept me sane enough to walk to class with her, honest enough to tell her whether I liked her video art or not, mainly black and white, interested recently with the texture of overripe fruit—watermelon, papaya. And she’d tell me if she liked my choreography projects, which involved the entire span of my arms: sweeping, emotional, lyrical projects constructed in the basement of our dorm, a windowless practice space. I was a dance major. I’d been a ballerina for fifteen years but when the time came to choose a path, to go pre-professional or go to college, I realized I wasn’t going to be a real ballerina at all. My teachers had already known, everybody had. My path was to go to school for dance and also get a liberal arts degree. But in class I struggled to choreograph. I feared I was somehow stunted, unable to lose the balletic posture I’d spent years acquiring, to shore up enough confidence to make any semblance of a splash—make a splash with your final choreo, Colette had said, do whatever you want. Everything was better in my head. When I tried to let go, really abandon all constraints, it got so much worse. Isabelle and I both knew in our own ways that we weren’t getting it, and often considered our dilemmas in silence, staring at our laptop screens.

*

My payments for the Whole Foods salad bar were ruining my life: $ 17.75, 14.56, 16.89.  It was right next to my dorm, in the city. I was going to have to start working in the library. My mom was mildly disappointed in a gentle way that was hard to take offense to—it’s ok to switch majors, do you know what you might be interested in? 

I wasn’t interested in the salads themselves, in eating them. Mainly I was interested in their creation, and in the abundance of the buffet, fluorescent-lit, which offered me far more agency than the dining hall. Mesclun mix, leaves dry from sitting under light, on the verge of a shrivel, but not if I went right after class, before four. Creamy cubes of feta stocked in tins. (I always tonged too many, wacked them dry then dropped them in my take-out box). Slick green olives pitted, coated in oil. Flared artichoke hearts somehow festive, like little corsages. Crisped chicken cutlets, so crispy, the remnant crisp raked from the bottom of the pan into my salad. Pizza mac and cheese, dense like lasagna, essentially lasagna. I wedged a chunk into the corner of my box. Zucchini, grill-marked, green. When I was a kid, my mom had made me zucchini every night. I adored it, mandarin oranges too, taut and small. Home-y, however off. I loved shredded salmon and could eat it plain, the salt, the chewing required to get your teeth through, left out all day under the light, the pink parts graying, the gray parts graying. I’d add it anyway. Everything belonged in my book. I’d shake the balsamic dressing bottle over my head, then squeeze, counting to ten so that everything was sufficiently drenched. The box could barely contain my salad, I could barely close it. 

I know you’re cold put on some pants bitch. Come on bitch. 

The woman wore a wool hat pulled over her eyes and loitered near the salad bar with a shopping bag. She was having a hard time walking, maybe, leaning on the bar, favoring one foot. Maybe homeless, hard to say. I looked down. It was true, I wore shorts. But I was only walking home from the studio, it wasn’t far. 

I bet you got a white boyfriend, she said then, in a way that was resentful but dismissive, like she’d made up her mind. The woman was white. 

Sam wasn’t white. Half-Indian, rather. I didn’t say anything, or really acknowledge her, but I guess she got me thinking. Who did I seem to belong with? If you just saw me at the Whole Foods salad bar? 

I endured the cold all the way down the block to the revolving door of my dorm, then spun through. I put my head down, heading up to the tenth floor. 

Hi! Casey said. Oh my GOD long time no see. 

People kept saying things like that to me, like knowing Sam and I had broken up, they were shocked to see me in one piece, amazed that I could bounce back from this, which was so obviously such a severe social detriment. Everybody loved Sam. 

So good to see you! I said. Long time no see! 

I’d seen a picture of Sam with Casey’s best friend Erin on Instagram. She was my second suspicion, after the Cuban Café girl. 

There’s that party later this week, Casey said. She looked down at my legs. Aren’t you cold? 

I knew what party, I’d been added to the Facebook group. I wasn’t going to that party. Unless Casey wanted me to go to that party. We were kind of friends, though maybe not friends enough to warrant me going to that party. Isabelle would be suspicious of me wanting to go to that party, she’d know it was about Sam. I’d have to introduce the party with subtlety, act like I didn’t care too much. Isabelle, deep down, would also want to go to that party. She could be coaxed into it, convinced to do anything, if framed correctly. She was agreeable, in a good way. 

I might, I told Casey. Will you be there? 

Yeah! I’m probably going around 10. Erin’s band plays around then. 

I trudged upstairs. I stacked the third salad of the week in the fridge, slightly off-center. The fridge smelled like grass and balsamic. 

Party? Isabelle said, later, when she got home. She was more curious about it than I thought she’d be, when I told her. I heard about that, she said. Are we going? 

Maybe, I told her. 

Sounds kind of fun, actually. She got into bed across from me, switched her purple lamp off. I’m in a party mood, she said as her breathing started to slow. 

I lay in bed and closed my eyes. Then I tented my comforter and checked Sam’s location. Zoom in. My stomach lurched. 

Cuban Café. 

*

I brought up the job to Isabelle. 

All I have to do is audition tomorrow, I said. If I do well, I get invited to the fetish party on Saturday, where the men pay for my feet. They told me I can bring one hot friend. 

Isabelle blinked. What about that other party you mentioned? she said. That’s also Saturday. 

Oh. I sat on the edge of my bed, glanced out the window at the massive construction project across the street. A drilling began, rumbling our floors. We could do both? 

Sam might be there. 

I shrugged. I don’t really care. We could make money. Then to celebrate, we could go to that party. 

Isabelle sipped her tea. She looked across the street at the construction, so much random metal scaffolding, some torn highlighter green fabric wrapped around it, warping in the wind. Why don’t I have to audition? she said. 

If I audition, I vouch for you. They’ll trust that you’re a hot girl. 

She thought about it a second. That’s pretty dumb, she said. Ok. Why not? And she left for class. 

*

When Isabelle wasn’t there, I would masturbate. Then I’d put all my clothes back on quickly and get comfortable so I could watch my favorite YouTube series about young girls in search of their prom dresses, midwestern girls in sparkled bustiers—big clunky crystals, marine teals and royal blues. Awkward girls in braids and braces who wouldn’t normally get dressed up, on pedestals with big clamps on the backs of their dresses to make them fit right. 

This kind of seafoam color, the woman gestured, look how it brings out her eyes. 

I started crying. The seafoam, her eyes. She stuffed her big foot, no arch, into a glossy nude pump. 

I often went down a rabbit hole like that. There was a phase of my adolescence I was nostalgic for. When I was young I’d watched a lot of this one YouTuber who made videos about anti-bullying and sex positivity before I’d ever had sex. Gracie Green. I typed her name into the YouTube search bar. Gracie Green was still at it. “Hacking Polyamory: Dealing with Jealousy.” “Wanna have s3x?: 3 Unexpected Benefits of Being Single.” 

But I didn’t want mature enlightened Gracie Green. I wanted original Gracie Green. My Gracie Green, in thick black rectangular glasses and a graphic tee. “HOW TO PUT ON A CONDOM???” I propped my head up with my stuffed rabbit, scrolled further into her 2013 videos, “SELFIE HELP.”

Not everybody is gonna look great in every selfie. Then she’d make a stupid face and throw up a peace sign. I like to take random pictures of myself just to get used to what I really look like, she asserted. 

I took out my phone camera and looked at myself in bed, the rabbit twisted behind my neck, my hair disheveled, the skin in my eye hollows purplish-blue. 

I lapsed away from Gracie into other self-help—positive self-talk videos, shadow-work for anorexics. This one woman made countless videos about how spaghetti kelp will fill you up; it has, she claimed, one eighth the calories of normal spaghetti. Isn’t that insane? she asked the camera. I know myself, I need something that’s really gonna fill. Me. Up. So much spaghetti kelp tumbled out of her pasta strainer onto an oblong plate. All the comments under the video were similar: 

I’d rather eat actual nutrients than sea kelp you fucking retard. 

This is going to be pretty bad, I thought. This semester. This year. I pulled the sheets up higher, over my chin, over my head. I would not be like those women who were so stressed out they gave themselves ovarian cancer. I wouldn’t like to eat kelp either, nothing appealed, definitely not that. 

My best memory with Sam, when there was no fighting, was probably at the Prospect Park zoo, our favorite place. Whenever we’d look at the otters in their water habitat, they’d start doing a show. I swore, they knew when people were watching. They had a routine—trotting in circles, diving, slipping their slick little heads underwater. The otters made me so happy. And the porcupine, who saw us, startled and turned, then hugged a tree and slid up it like in a cartoon. 

Sometimes I feel like a little boy at the zoo, he said. 

Sometimes I do too, I said. I feel like a little boy. 

Yeah, when? 

I sometimes feel like a little boy when I’m panicked, like when I’m stressed out, or when I wake up anxious from a bad dream. I feel flat-chested and panicked and flailing. Like a little boy. Like when I was very young, before I had boobs. When I was in middle school, I think I felt like a little boy. 

Yeah I’ve seen you as a little boy, he said. 

I turned over in bed now and let my knees fall outward into frog position, let the position stretch my glutes, open my hips. Flat against my bed. 

I could not bear to think about the frog parade today. I slammed my laptop shut. 

Those were the things I did alone. 

*

When Isabelle came back from class, I was in bed crying. 

She looked at me with helpless concern. She leaned against the bedpost for a while, thinking. She left the room, then came back with peanut butter toast for me, topped with banana circles. I stopped crying, hugged my knees to my chest. 

Are you sure you want to do this tomorrow? 

Yes. Jason told me where to go. 

Who’s Jason? 

The foot guy. He’s in charge of the whole thing. He dm’d me. 

Why though? Are you sure? Why are you doing this? 

I really want to make money, I said.

You could go back to the library.

And I think I’d just like to be good at something, right now. 

She seemed to understand. 

Tomorrow, tell me how it goes, she said. Just please, text me if something bad happens. 

*

The audition for the job took place in room 505 at the Grand State Hotel at 33rd street. Men in suits revolved through doors, men with jowls. Women in walnut-colored loafers. Two Spanish tourists in elaborately knotted knitwear and wide-brimmed hats stood in front of Paris Baguette nearby, flagging down a car. Girls in curlers camped out on blankets for the Harry Styles concert series at Madison Square, not a mom in sight, heroin addicts seated next to them, mumbling softly to each other, nuzzling their noses into each other’s necks. Across the street was Riley Rose, a massive makeup and cosmetics store with a porn star name. So blatantly obscene—Riley Rose—looming over everything in hot sexy pink neon cursive letters, Riley Rose. 

Remember when Sam took you to the movies at Times Square, to kill time, and he said that, about Riley Rose? The porn thing? And you laughed? And then it became your joke too?  

The hotel was busy. It didn’t matter that I had no business being there, it was essentially a public space. There were children, running. The carpet was un-vacuumed, crushed-up crackers had been stamped into the maroon thread. Cheez-its maybe. My stomach turned, I craved food. I didn’t crave food, food wasn’t what I needed. I took the elevator up to 5. Sometimes New York looked like it did to me in 80s movies, stale, veloured, the nut-colored palette of the lobby interior, a picture of money unfathomably old. People who ordered escorts. People with briefcases.  

When I got to the 5th floor, there were other people lounging on chairs in the seating area. A girl had her feet kicked up on a floral ottoman, taking a nap. Were they feet people? Were they auditioning too? I knew it would be fine if there were other people around. How hard is it to leave a hotel room, if you have to? Maggie and Amber had been fine. 

Jason answered the door. Please, come in, he said, stepping back. He was sunbed-type tan and wore a button-up and smelled like church had growing up, so many men in so much cologne. I sat on the edge of the queen-sized bed. We introduced ourselves. 

So. Have you done this before? he said, still standing, both hands on his hips.  

Yes, I lied. Lying felt right. I felt my feet in my shoes, sore from class, the soothing sigh of the AC from above me. Kind of, I told him. 

So this will just be a refresher. He plucked a joint from the edge of an ashtray on the hotel desk, next to a large professional camera. Do you smoke? 

No thanks. 

Do you want a gummy? 

No, that’s ok. 

He tore some foil, popped a blue gummy into his mouth instead. His eyes were already red. Jason didn’t intimidate me, he reminded me of my high school drug dealer and wasn’t that much older than me. His phone buzzed on its charger stand—Kami sent u the venmo request. A few Hinge receipts. Sprite in a takeout cup soaked a circle on the desk. 

Unfortunately Jason wasn’t attractive in exactly the way I’d anticipated. A large mole covered most of one cheek, though that wasn’t what was unattractive. He had the energy of someone who knew he could procure sex one way or the other, like sex would never be scarce, something women sometimes have too, although most women are just inherently beautiful and appealing, it seemed to me. It was a fact of life too that women could have sex, you just decided, sure, sex, and there you were, having it. Too slippery sometimes, like before you knew it, there you were! Of course though, this was why they were more powerful, Gracie Green had actually said in her video. 

Ok, it’s like this, he said, and told me to lie down. I’ll just clarify the basics, what most people will expect from you. Jason pulled at his jean pant legs, knelt at the foot of the bed so his face was below my feet. Being unattractive didn’t make him a bad person, I thought. 

I lay back on the bed, looking up at the oatmeal ceiling. The hotel was not that nice. Or, it was nice, could be nicer. Oatmeal ceiling? 

Step on my face, Jason said. Just want you to feel super comfortable. Again, nothing you do is against your own discretion. He said discretion slowly, like it was tricky to say. Step on my face. 

All right. Hesitant, I closed my eyes, then stepped on it, felt the smush of his cheeks. 

Step on it. 

Ok, I said stepping on it more, crushing it. 

More confidence but, yeah, you’ve got it! he said, muffled. 

I fished to feel something worse. Nothing. It was fine. This seemed so easy. 

Ok, he said, grabbing my ankles, to stop me, pushing my feet neatly together, moving his face away. He was a professional. The men, he said, they pay to experience the VIP experience.  They subscribe. So, we start you out at the Halloween party. If that event goes well, we’ll take your photos, throw you up on the website, you can start doing privates. But let’s test the waters, see about the party, you can fill in for Esmeralda. 

Esmeralda? I said. Then I realized, Maggie. This was the name she’d given. What name had Amber given? 

What’s your name again? he asked me. 

Selena, I said, reasonably. Sexy. Latina. Lean into it. Sam had said once–it’s what makes you so sexy—and it had meant a lot to me, at the time, like a compliment, though now it sounded reductive. 

Jason’s eyes sparkled. Nice to meet you Selena. 

I left feeling the way I do when I leave the doctor, like somebody had gotten under my clothes, even though he hadn’t. I felt thoroughly searched, like somebody had seen something incredibly personal of mine and told me it was nothing to worry about, it wouldn’t kill me. A settled feeling. And also, thank God that’s over, I thought. It gave me peace of mind. 

I deserved a reward. I went to Whole Foods. Something in me said, check his location. Check. The dark S circle. He was down the block, around the corner. He was at CVS. That was my CVS, we’d been there so many times together. He knew that was my CVS. I pictured him in the paper towel aisle, looking up at my face, spaced-out, then seeing me. I slipped out of Whole Foods and back to my dorm, no salad today. 

*

On Saturday we took a Lyft to the first of the two parties. It was a costume party. I arrived with cat ears because I felt that the costume should be simple. Nobody here wanted an interpretation of what I was. They just want you for you, for your body, I thought. Be yourself, I assured myself in the mirror before I left. I tied a ribbon around my neck, bow in front. I felt groomed, clean. I wore dark pink lipstick, and having passed the audition, I’d brought Isabelle, who assured me if something went wrong we could just go. You can always just leave places, we agreed. How hard could it be?

Some of the girls had gone all out. The bartender wore a shiny polyester Little Bo Peep outfit with a garter belt, her hair clipped so that curls tumbled around her face. Though the warehouse was fancy (on the thirtieth floor of a random building, a rental space, exposed brick walls, sultry lighting) there was a makeshift open bar counter folding table instead of a real one. The Bo Peep girl didn’t affirm that she’d heard me when I asked for another vodka soda, but did mix it for me, and I understood, she was seasoned and wanted nothing to do with me.  

We all stood in a clump around the bar. The first few men walked in—premium elite club subscribers, Jason said they were, so treat them as such—and we horse-shoed awkwardly, waiting to be chosen. The first of them got to pick any of us. 

You, the man said, and pointed at Isabelle. Of course, Isabelle. She was perfect, beautiful. Isabelle. 

I was left on my own. 

The girls stood around, chatting. There were way too many of us. After a couple sips of my drink I decided to take responsibility. I approached some guy wearing a newsboy cap backwards. Hey. 

I’ll just tell you right now, I don’t like boots, baby. 

What? 

I don’t like boots. You’re wearing boots. Nothing against you, I just don’t like boots, baby. 

I felt like such an imbecile. Of course I’d worn boots to the foot fetish party. 

I wandered. Finally, somebody took interest. A finance guy with a large Apple watch. He seemed vulnerable, sweaty. I led him by the hand to the sofa area, the area where the other girls sat in mens’ laps, doing the work. The sofa stretched the entire perimeter of the room. 

Can we get somewhere more private? he said. 

I led him to a chaise lounge instead, in a way-back corner of a different room, concealed by a brick pillar. I kicked my legs over his lap. 

When I was a little boy my sister used to bring her friends to the house on Sundays, he said. I’d be sitting on the carpet in the living room watching cartoons. I’d be lying on the carpet watching, and as a joke, they’d step on my face. They’d step all over my face and sometimes on my back as a joke. 

I imagined girls with blue toenail polish and anklets. The fuzzy cartoon greens and bubblegum pinks on the TV. His face rubbing up against the carpet. 

Do you want me to do that? I asked him, in earnest. 

He shrugged, Ok, sure. We can try. 

He got down on the floor more quickly than I’d anticipated, on his hands and knees, his cheek pressed to the linoleum, two palms flat facing down. I placed one bare foot on him. Testing it, I lifted some of my weight off my other foot, onto his head. He didn’t seem to react very much. His cheek just squished against the ground, his one cheek into his other cheek. The hard shell of his head, though, was stable, even when I let all my weight go, balanced on one foot, steadied myself with my arms outstretched. He wasn’t too old, physically fit enough to take it. 

Sam was living in my head. For a while, he had been, I realized. I hated Sam, the judgment he’d exerted on me. One night when we’d fought, a week before our breakup, we’d been standing near an open window at a party. Did you know, he’d asked me, that they think that maybe certain gender identities, like being transgender, are more dependent on environment than we might’ve thought? 

Oh, ok, I told him, unsure what prompted something so specific. 

Yeah. I mean the statistics actually say, he’d said. 

Cool, I’d said. 

Right, he’d said. You don’t believe me. He drank his drink bitterly. 

Why would I not? 

I don’t know, it’s just something I read today, he’d said. 

I would read the study, if you sent it. 

You’re not gonna read the study. 

Why? 

Because you’re not going to. You’re just not. You are always looking for evidence of me being wrong. You are always trying to prove me wrong, he’d said. I can’t say anything without you questioning me. 

Of course I was, I thought now, because he was always right, about everything. He made a point of it. He had to be right, relevant, informed, and he was, constantly, in the know, constantly ten steps ahead of me. Unscathed probably too, by this break-up, doing just fine. I leaned more weight into the man’s face again, back away, then stomped, once. 

Send me the study, I’d said. 

I don’t have the study, he’d said, looking at me like I was deranged. 

Where was the study? Who published it? I said, becoming more unnerved. Somebody nearby us in a sweater was starting to listen. Where did you find it? 

I don’t know. Somewhere reliable, somewhere really good. 

He strolled away from me, like he wasn’t my boyfriend at all, just somebody at the party.  

The man seemed underwhelmed by me. His face was just kind of squishing against the floor. I started stomping all over it, harder, my eyes closed. It felt good to stomp. Then I let one foot down to the ground and started kicking at the head harder. He put a hand up, sort of gesturing for a time-out. 

Uh, that was good, he said, clobbering to a kneel. 

Sorry, I said. 

Can I take a couple pictures of you? he asked, slipping a digital camera out of his back pocket.  

Maybe after, I said. I saw myself in the large round mirror in that backroom, which was sepia, and felt candlelit, the room, though there were no candles at all. I was very drunk now. I lay back, kicked my feet up. 

Go ahead, I said, eyes closed. 

I lay there, and he just started touching them. I felt I had very little to do with my feet. They were pretty far from my face. My feet which, from ballet, had developed calloused pads, encasing the jutted bones, flexible feet which were of interest to feet people, who are often aroused at how high a woman’s foot arch is, how severe. Two years before I might’ve said they were the most important thing to me, my arch essentially created for pointe, the one thing about my body predisposed for ballet. They were good feet. Two years before, I might not have let him touch them. Feet which after years of turning over wood floors, were so calloused that they were tough and ultimately impervious to feeling. 

He put one in his mouth. Strangely, it wasn’t entirely unpleasurable. It was so sensual, for him, and so easy to provide what he needed. Then he hitched my skirt up, in one swoop. 

He had my skirt up, and I was left to assume, it’s happening so you should do something. And it wasn’t that I was so against sleeping with him for money. I wasn’t really against anything. I couldn’t know if I was against it, if I didn’t try it. But I also didn’t know it would be so fast, putting his hands elsewhere on me, and I didn’t know how much I’d dislike it. I just felt sure that in a few seconds, he’d have my underwear off. I didn’t hear what he said. I just thought, if he gets my underwear off, I’ll die. 

He mumbled to himself, so deeply aroused, grabbing at his pants like he couldn’t wait, couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch me like that, his erection bulging through his thin trousers. 

Are you gonna pay for that? I said. 

That startled him out of it. He moved his hands away. 

It was dim enough that my vision was fuzzy, like the beginnings of passing out, minor vision loss in the peripherals, encroaching on the room. I pressed up onto my elbows. He thought about it for a minute, then shrugged. I can pay. 

I reached for my drink. No, I said, then pulled my skirt back down, and left the room.

 *

Isabelle and I walked out of the warehouse together onto the street, a misty chill, a reminder we were near water. I told her how I thought I’d almost had sex. I couldn’t do it, I started saying. I just knew I couldn’t handle it. 

I blew a guy, she told me. 

Whoa, I said. 

I just—she motioned, in and out, a kind of strangled choking noise—then showed me five hundred dollars, discreetly out of her purse. 

We decided on Mexican for dinner. I ordered a chicken quesadilla with extra sour cream in a dark empty restaurant in midtown. She loved me but viewed me with some disgust or at best, unnerved fascination, as I slabbed sour cream over the tortilla. 

I can’t stop thinking about Sam, I said, and it felt automatic, to say it, I’d said it so much. 

She looked at me like of course, a minute couldn’t go by without him. 

I know, was all she said. She sipped her blue margarita, a dehydrated strawberry dead at the surface. 

I miss him, I told her, gobbling the quesadilla, every last bite of it. 

Just for now, for tonight. No more. No more about him. Please? 

I sipped my margarita. 

Thanks Victor, Isabelle told our waiter Victor, handing him a cash tip. 

When you were with that guy, did he just ask you and you did it? I asked. 

She paused. I guess I saw what you meant. It wasn’t that complicated. It felt good to be good at it. He was so into it, she said. I thought of her video art, this one clip of a pineapple she’d broken up with a hammer. Her teacher had marked it a C-. 

He wasn’t that gross either, she said. Took two seconds. He let me name my price. 

Isabelle seemed so confident. 

We rode the train home. I didn’t think I wanted to go to that party after all, I said. Really? Isabelle said. After all that? 

Sam, I knew, would be there. You can go if you still want, I said. You should. 

Isabelle thought about it. I might go. 

Have a good time. 

She got off a few stops before me. 

*

how’d it go? Amber had texted me, a couple hours before. I hadn’t seen it until around 11, when I was nearing the dorm. It was nice of her, I thought. 

 I don’t know why I texted her back. I was lonely. 

fine. I’m just not feeling great. 

 the break up u mean? 

Yea. 

i’m sorry, she wrote. 

Then after a couple more minutes. u wanna come over? for a drink?? 

So I did. 

Whoa, Amber said, when I showed up at her apartment, in Chinatown. Don’t cry. 

I’m not crying, I said, though I was. 

Can I… put a hand on your shoulder? 

It was surprisingly awkward, for Amber. I hadn’t imagined she’d be awkward at all. She usually seemed guarded and assured, and her dancing was the same—strong, sturdy, dragging long pointed lines across floors with the power of a professional. But maybe I was wrong, maybe she was always like this; tentative, mildly awkward. I just really hated when people asked if they could touch me. It killed the magnetism, intercepted the desire to touch. 

Amber had a cat, an orange one with a round flat face who welcomed it when I scratched between his ears. Amber poured me some whiskey, mixed it with something yellowish in a conical glass, catching lamp light. She sat next to me, on the leather couch, legs crossed. I’d never seen her in normal non-dance clothes—black pants, a strappy tank top. She had vague lines down her lips like she’d been a smoker, I realized. She was very pretty. 

I told Amber that I just wanted to know exactly what the last straw was, what had made him leave. I wanted to know what I’d been so immutably wrong about, for my sake. Whatever it was. I could change, before someone else saw it too. I was sick of feeling uncertain. I was always uncertain when I danced, even as a kid, ambiently anxious and afraid of the floor, of the worst-case scenario, of falling. Falling was scary in reality, there was no reward in exchange for the courage it required. 

Amber listened, patiently, with a grim look. 

You’re being too hard on yourself. 

Not hard enough, I said. 

You’re being really hard on yourself. Why are you still concerned with what he thinks? He sounds like a dick. 

She left to use the bathroom. There, on the wall, was a photo of her dancing ballet. She held an arabesque, gazed upward, lips parted serenely. Next to that was a framed magazine profile from ten years before. A whole profile, about Amber. I read. She’d been involved in the opening of a popular performance space. She’d had a whole venture, a career. There was a tiny photo of dozens of people, kneeling to watch a trio of dancers wearing solid blue tights, each of them with long dark hair. The stage was set to look like a small, simple kitchen. In the article, the interviewer asked, how did she stay on top of everything? She discussed intermittent cleansing of the colon. She said it was her girlfriend who’d helped her live through it all. It seemed sweet and true, the way she said it, or, the way it was written there. I couldn’t imagine her saying something so sincere. She looked beautiful in the image, her face printed on the glossy page, wearing a maroon jacket, wrapped in a scarf. Amber, in big black font. 

That’s nice, I said, when she returned to the room. The girlfriend part. 

Ha. I guess, Amber said. She broke up with me. A year ago, actually. 

Amber, it occurred to me, was successful. 

This is cool, I said, pointing to the article, to her name. 

It’s nice to have someone over, she said. I don’t go out as much these days. I don’t know, she said, and mumbled something to herself. 

Lonely, I thought. She’d invited me over. I felt happy to be there, I wanted to know more, about her life. Who broke up with her? Why would they do that? Somebody like her? But I didn’t ask. 

Isabelle texted me. wya you good? 

I sat next to Amber. I wiped my face. She hugged me. It wasn’t strange, the way she hugged me. It wasn’t awkward either. She was sure, about hugging me. 

Thanks for letting me come over, I told her. I wasn’t sure, but I’d say it was charged, the room was warm and lit brightly with yellowish bulbs. She was warm. Maybe I could’ve kissed her. 

I think I’m going to quit dance, I said. 

No you’re not, she told me. 

We fell asleep, on the couch, together. You’re gonna be ok, she said. 

In the morning, it was mildly awkward, how we’d shared some sort of intimacy. That’s coffee, she said, pointing to a bag of grounds on the table, then pretended to sort through the contents of her wallet. Coffee, if you want it. The bike, too. You can ride it home, she offered. Just bring it back to me, at class. 

*

I don’t wanna tell you, Isabelle said sadly. I’ll tell you who he was with, you know I will, but you have to ask me to. 

She wouldn’t say a word she’d recoil at later, I realized. Isabelle always seemed to have a sense of herself in the future, and in the future of the future. It was the same with her video art, she seemed sure it all existed in the future. She wouldn’t do me the disservice of lying. Lying to yourself will not get you to the future. It won’t bring about a better one. 

Don’t tell me, I said, and I meant it. Don’t. 

It’s all right, she said. She took my hand. We sat on the park bench. 

I’m not ok, I told her. I ate a huge bite of my bagel out of parchment paper. I hadn’t had a bagel in a while, the cream cheese, thick, whipped. 

Of course you’re not, she said. 

We stopped inside a vintage store for fun, through some glass French doors. A mom and her daughter stood near a mirror, the mom testing out a Russian fur hat, which she turned and showed the girl, who tried on some kind of snakeskin jacket, a buttery leather, expensive, green. When the girl finally hung the jacket back up, I put it on. I looked at myself in the mirror. 

That looks gorgeous on you, the girl at the register said. 

Thanks, I said. 

I couldn’t afford the jacket but I did remember how I felt in the jacket, for once. When I walked out I tried to tell myself, I’d remember the jacket. I’d remember myself in the jacket.

I can’t see myself objectively, I told Isabelle. That’s why I always need your help getting dressed. 

I can see you objectively, she assured me. Like God. 

We passed Whole Foods. Not today, I told myself. Save your money for food you will actually want to eat. A drilling sound came from the construction tower next to our dorm building, a job they wouldn’t finish for a very long time. 

I brought Amber’s bike back to class. I didn’t own a bike lock so I parked it right outside the studio room in the lobby, visible through the window glass. I stood at the barre, bent my knees and rolled through my feet up to relevé then back down again, watching it.

In class, Colette projected a video of Martha Graham dancers from the early 60s for inspiration, before we all performed our in-progress solo choreography. We gathered to sit and watch. I kept looking back at the bike, at the door, waiting for her. 

Martha Graham narrated over black-and-white footage of the dancers. 

The life of the dancer is that of a realist, she said over the footage. 

The dancer lifted her leg higher and higher while the rest of her torso leaned the other way. It was true. You did whatever it took to get your leg up there and hold it. Then, controlled, the leg folded back envelopé and she plowed forward, a silent dive into a roll. The floor is not scary, I always had to remind myself. Ballet doesn’t teach you to fall to the floor like that. Thefloorisnotscary in my head as I’d fling myself down. 

I wanted to look like the girl in the video—her hair plaited neatly, the smooth flat back muscles. It was always just within reach. I’d glimpse myself in the mirror and the lines weren’t neat, there was something I’d missed, some tiny muscle I hadn’t remembered to feel. 

Amber padded in late and unlaced her sneakers, watching the video. I tried to catch her gaze but she kept her eyes on the screen. 

The contract, release. This, Martha Graham said, is simply the dramatization of the process of breathing. 

Why so dramatic? I wanted to know. 

What do we think? Colette asked. 

Collette was so old-fashioned, but this video was good. 

When it was my turn to show my piece, I thought about momentum; keeping up with my music, tumbling in and out of each move, gathering speed, then slowing. I dragged my pointed foot around myself and folded neatly to the floor. How well are you living within the piece? Colette sometimes said. Or are you standing in the way of it, as in: did you choreograph yourself out of it? Or are you allowing it to keep going? I could sort of see Amber tilted her head with me when I turned but I blocked it out, it made me nervous. I needed to at least try to be good. This was what I was here to do. This one thing was mine, and so I had to try. I walked in one circle, then faster, two circles, then three circles. 

I was sweaty under my legwarmers. The cool room made my arm hairs stand. I bent to a kneel, wanting out of anyone’s view, though I was the one being critiqued. All their blinking, seated in a row, staring. I wished that they would just tell me, none of this is good, re-do it. I could take that. Just tell me what to do to make it good. Tell me. 

Different than usual, Colette said, and sat back in her tiny metal chair, crossed her legs. The walking part. I liked it. 

Yeah? 

Yes, Colette said, softening. You should keep that in there. Keep working on that part. It wasn’t great, it seemed, but it wasn’t bad either. I inhaled one last big breath, exhaled, rubbed at the sore spot knotted under my right shoulder blade. 

After class, I showed Amber the bike in the hallway. Everybody else filed out of the studio. 

You brought it back, she said. 

Yeah, of course. 

Thanks. She touched the handle. I mean, you sure you don’t want to borrow it? For longer? I honestly don’t really need it. 

No, I mean, it’s your bike. 

I have two. I like biking. Do you need a bike? 

Are you sure? 

Yeah, I mean, I’ll tell you if I want it back. Take it. That was really good, by the way, your piece. 

Oh thanks, I don’t know. 

Not what I expected, either. And Colette, she’s never nice. I love her, but she’s so crazy. I should show you old photos of her, of us together, sometime. 

Sometime. We were friends now, maybe. 

I rode the bike home. It was a good bike, the wheels rode so smooth. When I got home I trudged upstairs, all 10 flights, carrying the bike with me. My bike for now. I’d bring it back every day, I decided, until Amber did want it back. It gave us a reason to talk, anyway. I was so tired. My hamstrings burned, in the crooks of the backs of my knees, the soft part. I just wanted to sit in my bed. I wasn’t thinking about Sam. I wanted my bed and to listen to Isabelle’s slow snoring later, and then, me too, I wanted to fall asleep. I forgot my key, I realized. I knocked on the door, waited for Isabelle. I leaned over the bike handlebars. My legs hurt, everything did, but I didn’t mind it, and I felt how I seldom felt when I danced, like I didn’t mind it hurting, it had been worth something to hurt. 

Isabelle wasn’t home, I remembered. She was in the middle of an art history lecture. I was locked out. 

But it didn’t upset me. I just took the bike all the way back down. I’d take it for another ride. A slow one. Just to kill time. I rode across three avenues on my own, and kept going and going, even when it started raining. The green and red lights streaked the wet pavement ahead, blurring the bike lane, all color, no path.

Aurora Huiza is a writer living in Brooklyn. She earned her MFA in fiction from Syracuse University. Her writing can be found in The Paris Review, Expat Press, X-R-A-Y, The Masters Review, and others.