“What did you want to talk about. I’m not lookin’ for a quick an’ easy, alright?”

“Hey. Hey. I just wanted to know ya; I don’t wanna do anythin’ to ya. I can’t stand those vampire bitches either, but I was lonely so I thought I’d try to make some new friends, while my lady is in Europe.”

They were still walking, and now at First Avenue and 86th Street, Cypress and this woman, Idrina, went to have a glass of wine.

Idrina was a dancer, too. She and Cypress focused most of their attention on being third-world female dancers in the United States, and being disgusted with the way a lot of Celine and Ixchell’s friends conducted themselves in the world. Idrina, who was quite delicate herself, found Cypress’ indignation and disillusionment about being a dancer in New York City charming. Absolutely charming. They had two or three half-decanters of wine, in two or three bars, before Idrina walked Cypress back to the Bowery. Somewhere between the mid-East Side and Canal Street, Idrina found a slightly tousled flower for Cypress’ hair, a perfectly shaped rock for Cypress’ good luck, a stray pigeon feather for Cypress’ ear, an empty window frame for Cypress’ weaving, and a way of putting her tiny hand round the back of Cypress’ neck so Cypress just smiled.

JOURNAL ENTRY #151

yesterday my bosoms

kept fallin out

my shirts

move easily when i turn

the right nipple wiggles

but/

idrina say

“what’s a lil titty ’mong friends?”

Cypress and Idrina, dancing-growing-loving in New York.

“Ya wanna dance in New York, huh. Alright, ya do the toe-thang, don’t’cha? Heah we go . . .”

In a vast and deep studio cluttered with brown women and some men, Cypress tried to enjoy pointe, the lift of ballet. And Idrina made it so easy. Whenever M’sieur Tomas screamed in his Bronxite Southern drawl, “You colored people better get it toooo-gethaaaah. If you caaaan’t dance, Mizzzz Thaaaang, get the hell outta my class, honey,” Cypress would cringe and miss a step. Idrina would touch her arm and whisper, “He’s got to teach whoever comes in here. You know you’re a dancer; you can’t pay him no mind. He knows more than us, and he just trips. Not everybody has enough nerve to dance; that shoutin’ builds it in somebody who’s really gonna dance. Don’t you trip ’cause he’s gone out.”

During stretches M’sieur Tomas tried to push Cypress’ knee to her ear, and Cypress took as much pull as she could, until she yanked her leg down and cooed, “M’sieur, you gotta give me a few days to catch up on your technique. I know my leg will go up there if I keep comin’ here.”