I wanted to dance again and to keep on dancing. The song and the improvisation came back to my mind, moving my feet as I walked home up 8th Street. My stomach was still contracted and made my steps light. I sang the song over to myself, trying to imitate Simone’s raspy voice, but nothing but my own flat drawl came through. I thought of Ruella, then remembered Metro waiting for me at home. I changed more than the pronouns.

He does not know his beauty
He thinks his pale body
Has no glory
If he keeps dancing naked
On the pier…

No, that’s not it:

There are no palm trees
On the pier…

I must have laughed out loud because people started moving away from me on the sidewalk. Some went into the street. I kept singing and smiling. I’d tell Metro about the dance, about Ruella. In that brief moment she seemed to be a place to come to, a pier without splinters, a cozy room, not a warehouse.

I thought of Metro’s thighs warm against mine, how close our faces held in making love, how wiry were his hands. But how lasting were those images? I walked faster. Suddenly, my toes were burning.

I reached the apartment, but he wasn’t there. I waited for him through the early evening. I scrambled some eggs for dinner and read GQ twice. I waited for him through the night. I waited and waited. The more I waited the stronger was my desire for him. I wanted his hands on me. My legs still ached from dance, and when they relaxed I tried to sleep.

I wanted his hands on me. I didn’t mind the cracked, chewed skin, the broken fingernails with flecks of dirt along the ridge. I wanted those hands on me, the blunt knuckles, the wrinkled skin, the bony joints, the tiny hair sprouts curling out. I wanted his hands on me. And wherever those hands led, I’d follow. I’d ride the tracks of his feet and the rough guardrails of those hands. Five fingers and five more. I wanted the electricity of his touch, his hands on me. How many times did I tell him, “Just touch me. Dance your fingers on my chest, my thighs. Press my flesh. Take off my clothes real slow.” But when he touched me, my excitement dwindled into fear. His hands fluttered, suddenly unsure of themselves, of where they would land and do their marvelous work. I bent low and let his fingers drum on my belly. Then calmly they stroked where my secret skin was softest. He lifted away his hands and hid them. His lips found the tender places left aching by his touch. And when my hands kneaded him in turn—everywhere—nothing afterwards felt the same.

Then morning. An alarm shooting through me like the song. A knock on the door. Police.