My two-room apartment is at the back of the building where it’s quiet enough for me to meditate, do yoga, even dance with records playing loud with no trouble from the neighbors. Sometimes in the summer, I run in the park along Riverside Drive. It’s not what you’d call jogging, my huffy-puffy high step, up down two three. That night, I was just too tired. I did my own warm-up stretches with the window open to let some of the October breeze off the Hudson keep me company. Then ballet positions: first, second, third. Old positions, new positions. Maybe tomato soup and green salad for dinner. Maybe some television. Get clothes ready for tomorrow, I reminded myself I was doing part-time secretarial work three mornings a week until one o’clock. Then I was in one dance class or another for the rest of the day. I was hoping Jesse would be there next time. I wasn’t just watching him. He was watching me.

And I wasn’t going to think about him any more. I didn’t need to get involved. Before you knew it I’d have to explain about the sitz baths and why my ass is three shades darker than the rest of me. But his hands had just the right tenderness I remembered from before when Mama and Daddy and Phillip took turns staying up with me and holding me when the rash on my butt burned too hot for me to lie down and sleep.

Then I did my yoga positions: right leg crossed into half-lotus, deep breathing. Cross left leg over. Breathe again. Cup your hands in the center of the groin, the center of concentration, energy. Inhale straight up into the chest. Exhale slowly, ever so slowly. Hands rest cupped at the center, elbows at ease on kneecaps. Let your thoughts come and go. Release them and breathe to a slow count-two-three, one-two-three, until you are empty. A memory came up and wouldn’t leave until I gave it some space. The three count was me marking time to a tap dance. I was in front of two rows of skinny, awkward girls, all white, repeating after me, “shuffle-step, shuffle-step, heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe. Shuffle-step, shuffle-step, bend down, bend down, bend down, bend down.” Our arms in a triangle, hands at the waist.

“And again,” said Miss Goldberg.

We counted louder that time; she gave me another cue. “Now heel-step, heel-step, toe-step, toe-step.”

“And again,” said Miss Goldberg. “Again.”

The repetition was killing us. Some girls couldn’t keep up.

“Heel-step, heel-step, toe-step, toe-step.”