Strip. Andrew Binks

      But my leaving was a betrayal. Peter was mum, resting his chin on his hands like a scolded puppy, and most likely worrying about being an understudy that afternoon for an injured Paris. He’d rehearsed it to death and the dancing wasn’t really that difficult. He just had to look good, which would be no problem. He finally spoke. “So, it’s about dance? Or him?”

      “I don’t know. My mind is too crowded. There’s him…”

      “And all the thousand and one nights you’ve yet to spend with him.” Rachelle said.

      “And the possibility that I could be better than a soloist, with some good coaching. He really believes…”

      “But do you? Come on, dig deep.”

      “You’ve seen me dancing these past few days.”

      “Yes, we all have.” She droned, “Big deal.”

      “Big deal? I can do it. I am so centred right now. I turn on a dime, and just keep turning. Did you see me today? I turned five times…”

      “I’ve turned seven, and on my dick, and with my eyes closed.”

      “Correction, Peter. You were on someone’s dick.”

      “Hey. No potty mouth around me—you cocksuckers.”

      “…and then I just stood there on demi-pointe in a perfect retiré with everything so aligned. If it hadn’t been for having to have coffee with you two I could still be there. And my grand jeté is…”

      “Yeah, we know, grand. We saw it. Come on. Cut this shit,” she said, holding in a drag. “You’re in love with that frog. Am I going to have to clean out your room back home? That’s all I want to know.” She paused for a moment savouring the smoke. “God, I love how everyone smokes here.”

      Rachelle had never babied me, not from the moment she parked herself outside our upstairs bathroom with a can of cleanser in one hand and a sponge in the other, telling me it was my turn to clean up the pubes in the bathtub. Peter could be as harsh, too, but he knew when to stop. He never let on if he had actually had sex with a man but he had become a friend after some fumbled attempts for us to be bed buddies. Not a good idea for roommates—we ended up just cuddling.

      There is something like a double negative about doing it with someone you know, as a friend, who also happens to be a dancer; it takes an awful lot to become aroused, simply because you know all the ins and outs of their physique, mostly their flaws, and it is almost clinical as to how you know them. But he was definitely the hottest dancer I had seen that side of the Ontario–Manitoba border. As well as cuddling, we spent time physically close to each other, massaging shoulders, feet, ankles while watching whatever Rachelle and her husband wanted, usually Wheel of Fortune. Making it even less of an issue, we both talked about his body like it was a commodity we could both appreciate from the outside. We’d agreed that it was my weaknesses—low arch, tight tendons, feet that wouldn’t stretch—that would make me a strong dancer. And it was his gifts—perfect feet, high arches, a beautiful line, flexibility for days and visible muscle beneath his paper-thin olive skin—that would get him to where he wanted to go.

      But perfect feet and flexibility can be a curse; they can hinder your strength. He was the first one who enlightened me on that, after a particularly shitty day in the studio. I decided to walk home in the rain in order to catch terminal pneumonia, if possible, and he got off the passing bus to accompany me. With his great instinct for knowing when I needed a pick-me-up, he punched me in the shoulder and said, “It is your weaknesses that will make you a strong dancer.” I’ve repeated it to myself a million times since. It became my mantra in class with every tendu, developpé, and every session with my feet locked under the nearest radiator to stretch my tendons. And the mantra worked. So there was something more lasting to our relationship than the physical. During rehearsals and before class we stretched each other incessantly to the point where we must have looked way too comfortable physically, like twin sisters, Siamese twins. And if that were the case then Rachelle was our den mother. Even so, Peter wasn’t above being a bitch, especially now that I was smitten. “It sounds like this is your big chance.”

      “Let me ask one minor question here: has he even asked you to make the move?” Rachelle asked.

      “Thank you, Ma’am!” Peter said. “You took the words out of my mouth.”

      “Do I detect a note of sarcasm, or is it jealousy?” Peter and I were drifting. I hadn’t felt the same bond recently. Maybe we had had too many weeks on the road. He was odd, distant. Was I a threat? How could I be a threat? True, I had been promoted to second soloist just months before this tour, and he had stayed in the corps and we had it out over that—tears, the jealousy thing (although I had hoped he’d be a little more jealous for my own ego’s sake). After sharing a litre of Mogen David in some snowbound stop on the northern Ontario leg of our tour, where we performed in a cold gymnasium and slept in bunk beds, we breathed heavily from our respective bunks and stared up into the darkness. He actually found the nerve to speak, however drunk: “It’s politics; Kharkov has to show the board he doesn’t play favourites.”

      “So Kharkov hates me? Is that what you’re saying? And he luuuuuuvs you?”

      “No love lost, let me put it that way.”

      Later, sober, I was more willing to consider it. But now, here in Montreal I, along with the whole company, was sure Peter was next on Kharkov’s list of conquests. Kharkov promoted me because he had to; he would promote Peter because he wanted to. Peter was a shoo-in for a long career.

      “No, he hasn’t asked me. Not yet. It’s strange, but I feel like meeting Daniel is my chance to really find myself, as a dancer.” I actually believed this, then. Now, I’m not so sure I like what I’ve found.

      It was Rachelle who persevered, “That’s bs. It’s the same bs I told myself when I married Gordon. Now look at me.”

      “You thought Gordon could teach you to dance? He’s a… what the hell is he anyway?”

      Gordon referred to himself as an engineer, but he was unlicensed jack-of-all-trades from plumbing to wiring. He’d wear his dirt-caked boots around the house. Rachelle would scream at him. He’d call us fairies. They’d slam the bedroom door and go at it—sexually—and Peter and I would turn up Jeopardy on the tv. It was almost like having a family.

      “I meant being in love. Married. He would be my escape hatch.”

      “Wasn’t he?”

      Rachelle inhaled nicotine with every breath throughout her day when not dancing. She was sallow, her ridged teeth were tobacco stained, but every night, minutes before curtain in tights and tutu and tiara, she looked like the world’s loveliest princess. She had the perfect Company body; Kharkov loved tits and hated thighs. It was a tough type to find, but any female with an ounce of meat on her thighs didn’t stand a chance. Every company had its type.

      “It’s a pretty good sex life when you get home from tour, from what I hear on my side of the hall.”

      “If the sex weren’t so…”

      “Stellar?”

      “It can help you ignore other things,” she said. “That is something you should experience: Kharkov can be breathing down my neck all week, trying to crush me for the millionth time, and I think, Who cares? I’m going home to get fucked, wildly, unapologetically and furiously. And I know it pisses Kharkov off—royally.”

      “I hate you.”

      “Everyone needs an outlet. Looks like yours is going to be in Montreal. Anyway it’s not always perfect. What do you think hubby’s been doing for the past seven weeks while we’ve been taking Barnum and Bailey’s across the country?”

      “Framing houses?”

      “I don’t care what the fuck you say—men, gay, straight, when it comes to love they’re all assholes. With the exception of you two, my dear hearts.”