Stop staring. You’re being ridiculous.
“You’re early,” I say flatly.
“I’m enthusiastic.”
“You’re annoying.”
“Also that.” His smile widens. “Shall we begin?”
I take a deliberate step back, reestablishing professional distance. There’s a private lesson room upstairs designed specifically for one-on-one instruction. It’s smaller and more intimate, with better acoustics and a sprung floor that’s easier on the joints.
I don’t mention it.
“Fine. Center of the room. Shoes off.”
He sighs dramatically but complies, toeing off his expensive Italian shoes. I notice he’s wearing socks patterned with tiny flames in a way that seems unnecessarily on-brand.
“Now what?”
“Now we assess.” I circle him slowly, the way my mother used to circle me before competitions. Looking for weaknesses. Finding them. “Stand naturally.”
He stands.
It’s all wrong, of course. His weight is distributed unevenly, more on his heels than the balls of his feet. His shoulders are back but in a way that seems more like habitual arrogance than proper posture. His chin is tilted at an angle that suggests he’s posing for a portrait rather than preparing to dance.
But there’s something there. Something in the way he holds himself that suggests his body knows things his consciousmind hasn’t learned. He moves like someone who’s studied movement, even if he’s never bothered to apply that study to anything as pedestrian as ballroom dancing.
“Worse than I thought,” I say.
“Wonderful.” He doesn’t sound bothered. “Where do we start?”
“Basics. You clearly missed them the first time around.” I move to stand in front of him, close enough to correct his posture but not close enough to touch. “Feet parallel, hip-width apart. Weight on the balls of your feet, not your heels. Shoulders down and back—no, down, not up, you’re not a vulture preparing to take flight.”
He adjusts. Badly.
“Your left shoulder is higher than your right.”
“Perhaps I’m naturally asymmetrical. A charming quirk.”
“Perhaps you’re not listening. Drop. Your. Shoulder.”
Something flickers across his face—not offense, exactly, but surprise. Like he’s not used to being spoken to so directly. He drops his shoulder. Almost correctly.
“Better. Now, arms.”
He raises his arms.
Oh, for the love of?—
“That’s not a frame. That’s a surrender.”
“I’m surrendering to the music.”
“There isn’t any music.”
“Not yet.” He waggles his eyebrows. “I can hear it in my soul.”
I close my eyes and count to five. I remember that five thousand dollars could fix the roof, update the HVAC, and maybe even fund a proper advertising campaign for the Showcase.
