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"Eve, there aren't very many people who can get away with calling me a liar, or even suggesting it. Consider yourself lucky."
"You're a big fat liar." I suck on the tiny ember, holding the smoke in my lungs as long as I can.
"I am not fat." He starts to roll another joint.
"I can't smoke any more," I say, and then lean back, closing my eyes. I feel giddy, a bit dim as if I have a screen between me and the world.
"That's hardly anything. I thought I'd start off slow, since you're not very experienced."
I peer through my eyelashes and watch as he puts the joint down and then runs his hand up my bare leg, from my ankle to my knee and then up my outer thigh to my hip, underneath my nightgown. He turns to look at me and I don't hide that I'm watching him.
"You have beautiful legs."
"My ballet teacher told me I had the perfect dancer's body, but maybe a bit too short," I say, my tongue feeling a bit fuzzy already but I feel good. I stand up, and teeter a bit, but regain my balance. I stand a few feet away from the couch on the other side of the coffee table and take the first position in ballet, my feet turned out to one-hundred and eighty degrees, my arms softy curved, hands in proper position. I move through each position and back with only a slight wobble. "Not too tall, thin, legs in proportion to my torso."
He leans back, watching me with his head cocked to one side.
"Why did you stop dancing?"
I attempt an arabesque, succeeding for a moment and then try to move into a second one and lose my balance, falling into a very undignified position before trying to right myself. He stands quickly and holds out his arm, which I take, using it for balance.
"Eve, why did you stop?"
"I don't like to talk about it," I say and do another arabesque, determined to get it right.
"Obedience…" he says, frowning, a lopsided grin on his face.
"You keep saying that word," I say, and do a plié. "But you also said 'partners'. Partners don't force each other against their will."
"And you said 'all in'."
Finally I relent.
"I spent a year in and out of court after my current foster parents got custody of me. You can spot me," I say, pulling him around the table, his arm out so I can use it for balance, performingbattement tendus, holding my body still while one leg moves into the three positions, front, side and to the rear. Then I performbattements, lifting my leg to the level of my hip and then moving down rapidly, repeating it several times, front, side and back, my arm moving into the correct position each time.
"Court?"
I perform apassé developpe, ignoring his question, not wanting to get into it. I start in first position, my arm out in front, my right leg moving to the front then back, and then to the side and then finally into anarabesque, using his arm as a bar for support.
"You didn't answer."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You're still too sober." He pulls me back to the couch and I collapse onto it, my legs across his lap once more. He leans forward and takes the fresh joint, lighting it and taking a small puff to get it going. "I think I made them a little too thin because you should be feeling it more."
He hands it to me and I take it, feeling relaxed enough that I don't care how stoned I get. I inhale deeply, hold it in as long as possible, and then blow out the smoke, lying back, my eyes closed. I hand it back, peering at him under my eyelashes, pretending to keep my eyes closed, and he takes the joint and puts it between his lips but doesn't even puff on it, a smile on his face.
"Hey," I say, indignant. "You aren't even pretending to inhale."
"No, no," he says and hands it back to me. "This is about you, not me. You need to chill out. Mellow." He motions to the joint. "Go ahead. Finish this."
I take in another lungful, and then exhale. I glance at the joint. It's half gone. I'm definitely starting to feel it now, my arms and legs heavier, my mouth feeling like it doesn't really belong on my face. I take one more hit and when I exhale, I shake my head.
"I can't do any more."
I hold it out for him, turning my head away. He takes it back and taps it out, leaving it on a dish. I get up awkwardly, intent on trying out more dance steps. I hold onto the back of the other couch and try anotherplié, a deep knee bend and then lean back in a stretch, my arm extended. I lose my balance, laughing as I do, and he's once again at my side, catching me and holding me up.
"Hold your hand out," I say, "just in case I fall." Then I attempt a pirouette. It's a big mistake, for I knock into him, falling over into his arms, and then have to watch his wide grin at my clumsiness. I extract myself from him and pretend to be Odette from Swan Lake dancing around Prince Siegfried.
