I had a chance to choreograph something. And to dance. I decided upon a simple dance for two men. A pas de deux to Ellington’s music. I watched black men everywhere for movement: in barbershops, on street corners, some reading the New York Times, some going in and out of expensive hotels by the front door and some by the service entrance. And I watched myself: my bend of waist while making the bed, washing dishes, stretching on the parquet floor. And I watched Rodney without his knowing it. I saw the oil glisten from his scalp. I heard the thickness in his voice. I caressed his thick thighs that leapt more powerfully than mine. I fluttered after the gleam from his fingernails as his arms commanded and decorated every space he entered. I saw his grace, his sureness and poise of movement. I wanted to celebrate us—all of us black men. I watched black Wall Street executives leaping from taxis and the man selling subway tokens near our block. I watched the kids playing handball against the supermarket wall and under the sign reading “No Ball Playing.” I watched black boys dribbling imaginary basketballs while waiting to take the subway to the next playground. And some balancing real basketballs while riding in the car. I watched white men and black men and short men and fat men and men who were interested in my watching them and others who were not. I wanted to contain them all: men who had come to New York from everywhere else to crowd subways or just go about their regular business of living. And I thought of poor Lonny and how he didn’t even know what he was doing. He didn’t get anything out of attacking Metro. A couple of weeks in jail, maybe. Some months, maybe a year away at reform school. What else? He was now just a shadow moving across the stage at City Center. He was in the dance, too. A menacing steady presence, a reminder like the ordinary rope that can change in a second to a lyncher’s noose or a rescue line out of some dark, endless hole. A reminder that if the business of living was costly in this city of windows and metal gates, the practice of loving could be deadly.

I asked Rodney if he’d help with the dance by practicing some of the trial combinations with me. At first he was reluctant because his ankle was still weak. He blamed the accident at rehearsal on Ruella, but I said it really wasn’t her fault. “That woman kept looking at you,” he said. “And I was looking at you. How could anyone concentrate with all that looking going on?”