Dance was always my passion. Until I was about ten, I wanted to be a ballerina. I think most girls do. Luckily, I had an outlet for it, despite my home situation, thanks to an awesome teacher at school who saw the sparkle in my eyes after a class trip to watch the Nutcracker. Ms. Johnson saw to it I made it to every dance class, every recital and every competition.
During college, while playing the Sugarplum Fairy during my first big production, I got injured. Dreams of dancing on Broadway dashed, I shifted my major from dance composition to liberal arts, hoping to one day teach. Coming to New York might seem like precisely what a dancer might want, but without chances of ever working Broadway other than an assistant or a choreographer, it's a constant reminder of what I lost.
Teaching soothes the loss though.
Once I finish with my munchkin class, I have a salsa class that is always fun. After sashaying with them, my day is over. Three o'clock. An entire hour of waiting. I shower quickly then spend at least ten minutes debating make up. I rarely wear more than lip-gloss and mascara and decide since it's just a late lunch, anything more might seem too obvious.
Obvious of what, I don't know.
“Have a good night, Good-Witch Glenda!” I call breezily to my boss and the owner of the dance studio.
Outside it is cool and overcast, the air still smelling of yesterday's rain. Tipping my head back, I breathe in the moment of fresh air before congested streets and dirty trash ruins it. Kicking through the puddles along my way towards the park, I touch Knox' phone in my pocket.
Heat blooms between my thighs as a vivid image fills my head.
Rain, the mossy grass of my favorite hill in the park where the walking path ends as a manicured forest begins. It's dark and quiet there. I can smell the earth and the flowers that line the pathway. And, if I imagine hard enough, I can smell Knox. Or what I think he must smell like.
Expensive sheets and designer cologne, silky suits and soap.
It's visceral, the image of him there, so much so I stop as I reach it, certain for seconds I have conjured him. But, no, it's just my imagination.
Lying down on the damp grass, I smile up at the almost perfect circle of sky the surrounding trees carve out overhead. I like to lay here at twilight, watching the bursts of stars that smog soon enough clouds. A breeze kicks up, ruffling my skirt, but it feels good on my skin.
Almost like fingertips walking up my knee, over my thigh. I let out a throaty sound as I imagine fingertips walking higher, skimming between my legs. My breathing picks up as I see Knox again, bent over me, dark hair tousled in his face. He whispers my name as his fingers slide inside me and I gasp.
“Fuck.” I bite my lip, shoving up on my elbows. No one is around. It's just me and my fantasies again.
“Who are you, Knox?” I ask it to the skies, impatient for the answer.
