Darlene
June 15, present day
The music began with a lone piano. A few haunting notes, then a young woman’s soft, clear voice.
I began on the floor, barefoot in leggings and a T-shirt. Nothing professional. No choreography. I hadn’t meant to come here, but I was passing by on the street. The space happened to be free and I’d rented it for thirty minutes before I could talk myself out of it. I’d paid with shaking hands.
I shut out thoughts; let my body listen to the music. I was rusty; out of practice. My muscles were shy, my limbs hesitant, until the beat dropped—a tinny high-hat and uncomplicated techno beat—and then I let go.
Are you down...?
Are you down...?
Are you down, down, down...?
My back arched into a back bend, then collapsed. I writhed in controlled movements—my body a series of flowing shapes and arches and undulating flesh and sinew, swaying to the rhythm that simmered back to the piano and the singer’s voice—haunting and lonely.
Are you down…?
The pulse increased again and I was up, crisscrossing the studio, leaping and dragging, spinning three turns, my head whipping, arms reaching up and then out, grasping at something to hold onto and finding only air.
Are you down…?
Muscles woke up to the dance, aching, complaining at the sudden demands. My breath was heavy in my chest like a stone, sweat streaking between my shoulder blades.
Are you…?
Are you…?
Are you…?
It dripped off my chin as I collapsed to my knees like a beggar.
…down?
I sucked in a breath, the faintest of smiles pulling my lips. “Maybe not.”
On the subway back to the dinky studio apartment in Brooklyn I shared with my boyfriend, my pulse wouldn’t slow down. Sweat was sticking to my back under my gray old man sweater. I had just danced. For the first time in more than a year. A tiny little step that was a mile wide; it covered so much empty distance.
Today, I stepped into the humid June of New York City. Three years ago, I’d stepped off the bus at Brooklyn Metropolitan Detention Center after a three-month stint for misdemeanor drug possession. A year and a half after that, I OD’d at a New Year’s Eve party. Rock bottom.
I hadn’t danced in all that time—it felt wrong to allow myself to do something I loved when I’d been polluting my body and mind. But Roy Goodwin—the best parole officer in the world—had helped me take the steps necessary to shorten my parole. I’d have mandatory NA meetings for another year, but otherwise a clean slate. And I was nearly finished getting an esthetician’s license and massage therapist certificate.
And today, I danced.
Things were getting better. I was getting my shit together. And Kyle…I could fix things with Kyle. We were going through a rough patch, that’s all. A rough patch that had been going on for two months.
My hopes deflated with a sigh. Just this morning, it took three tries to get him to answer to his name. Lately, his smiles were full of apologies, and he had a detached fade in his eyes. I’d seen it before. There’d be no big drama. No epic fight. Just a disappearing act. Maybe with a note or a text.
Despite the heat, I shivered and walked faster, as if I could outrun my thoughts. I wondered—for the millionth time—if I were trying to hold on to Kyle because I cared about him, or because I couldn’t stand the thought of letting another relationship slip through my fingers.
“It’s not over. Not yet,” I said as my combat boots clomped down our block.
This time I wasn’t going to fail. Not again. This time I could do something right. I’d been clean for more than a year, and with Kyle for longer than that. My longest relationship. I wasn’t a fuck up. Not anymore. I’d hold on tighter, if that’s what it took.
On the third floor of the shabby walk-up, I opened the door on 3C, and stepped inside…and nearly tripped on the duffel bag. Kyle’s duffel bag. It was stuffed so full, the zipper looked ready to burst. I shut the door behind me and looked up, squinting, as if I could minimize the pain of what I was seeing.
Kyle was at the small kitchen counter writing a note. He set down the pen when he saw me. Slowly.