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Show Motherlunge a novel 221 When she was a little girl, your grandmother Dorothy took ballet lessons. She used to love to dance. Dorothy's teacher-middle-aged Madame DeCosse-cut a figure: high heels, rhinestone eyeglasses, black pantsuits cross-hatched with cat fur. In class Madame would scream at the class, consistently get a little hysterical. Actual moisture would glitter in her black and magnified eyes. "THIS HOUR," she would cry, hammering a tiny white fist into the palm of her other hand, "WILL NEVER COME AGAIN. USE IT!!" Madame was always minutely ahead of the beat, even in adagio; the IMBECILE accompanist lagged. Years later, Dorothy could still see Madame coming at her in the mirror. She could remember her hissing in her ear, FOCUS MIRIAM, WORK! And sometimes, as in a horror movie, she thought she could feel it: Madame's hand pushing her forward, as if to force her forehead onto her leg at the barre. Your poor grandmother! She knew every minute the time she was losing. She counted it. And it was like a piece of music she had to keep on practicing, the same trying phrases, the same basic steps-and all together the measures never made a dance. Once again I lay on top of Eli's chest, feeling his heart beating through my breasts. The cooling semen sought egress from between my legs; I slid off Eli and onto my back, knees up, to keep it in. |