Hesitation – Sabrina Burns

Natural turn. Change step. Reverse turn. Keep forty-five degrees diagonal down the line of dance. Spin turn. Don’t get dizzy and step on Andrew’s $170 black leather shoes. Every misplaced step would only earn you another tight-lipped grimace and sigh. His hand would constrict around yours, a warning for you not to fuck up again. You know better than to fuck up again. Six hours a week connected by torso, legs, and hands taught you to anticipate every subtle shift in your lead’s body language. Every unspoken word conveyed in razor sharp pivots and a powerful ebb and flow. Electricity surges from fingertips to toes, carrying you both across the floor. With each charged step, you travel farther than in any practice session before. If you glance down, you can see Andrew’s momentum pushing you in his tight black skinny jeans. For the love of everything holy; you haven’t shoved your calculus homework to the back of the to-do list for nothing. Don’t get distracted by the sexy now.

“You’re rushing,” he whispers into your ear. The unanticipated criticism blasts a torrent of panic into your mind, and you stumble when he suddenly slows down for a hesitation, forcing your weight onto your left leg a moment too late. You miss the second beat, and your whole choreography fizzles as you lose your footing.

Andrew releases your hand—cue the inevitable sigh—and turns away from your puzzled stare. The gym loudspeaker roars calm piano music in your ears. The other dancers swing around you while you motion for him to follow. You guide him against one of the mirror walls, out of the way of the others’ euphoric frenzy.

“I thought we agreed not to do hesitation,” your voice wavers, fingers locked in front, pantomiming your previously clasped hands.

Andrew, tall and carved like one of Michelangelo’s pristine statues, smooths his dark hair back. No sign of exertion in his posture, no shaky legs or sweaty forehead. It was an easy practice round for him. His skill and confidence never cease to summon your admiration.

“We did,” he confesses, rolling his ankle to loosen it up. “And I’m sorry I didn’t mention the change before we started. But we’ll get more points if we add in hesitation. The judges won’t like the same routine for each round; it’s too predictable.”

“That doesn’t make sense though. We should only focus on our strongest moves, like coach says. And we didn’t need to stop because of a small mistake either.” In fact, you did exactly what you were supposed to—slowing down, pointing your right foot to the side, and staying strong on your left. You both danced at top performance and made it mid-track with no hiccups until now.

Andrew places both hands on your bare shoulders, short-circuiting your next thoughts with an oxytocin rush. His smile shines with the warmth of a frustrated parent. “Eleanor, this isn’t newcomer anymore. Bronze takes more than rote natural turns to get to finals. We want to place and get that sweet ribbon, right?”

“Right,” you murmur, squeezing your hands tighter. A ribbon was everything in ballroom: prestige for the couple, promotion to the next competition ranking, increased club funds. A ribbon would reaffirm your shared commitment to the ballroom’s eternal glory. A ribbon would get you into Andrew’s good graces for the rest of the year.

“But Andrew,” your say, pushing your luck, “weren’t we doing a bunch of turns in our choreo anyways, and then the one hesitation? How isn’t that repetitive?” And how many times would they need to practice before Andrew could see your head was in the game? Practice wasn’t just for the fun of it.

Before Andrew can respond, you hear, “You under-turn, Eleanor.” Your burly, balding instructor walks up to you and Andrew, stroking his furry chin. He was watching you do your practice rounds. Etching the memory of your waltz onto your still form as couples carousel around the dance floor. “It’s like this.”

Without a word, your coach pulls you into frame. Your instincts take hold. You drape your left arm on his shoulder and arch your back, standing cat pose, ready to leap at the first advance.

“Big steps, leave room for lead to get around you. Like revolving door in 5-star hotel, da?” Your coach propels you backwards through your clasped palms. You rush to match his long gliding strides with short, clacking back lunges. Not an easy feat in high heels.

You whiz across the wooden floors, dodging the gray benches stacked with backpacks and water bottles, past the rich violet curtain by the back and the mirrors. The dying sunset streams through the gym’s much too small windows. In the mirror, you see Henry, a resident senior of the club, performing a paradoxical combination of Taichi and cha-cha. Henry’s extended limbs, stiff (though not from onset arthritis), slither in the air like a snake, illuminated in the soft orange light. Henry always warms up with his hybrid dance, loosening his hips with figure eights and paintbrush air-strokes. The club often jokes that his unorthodox style keeps him in better shape than the coach’s drills, though most members imitate his moves from afar.

In the background, you and the coach zoom with comical speed from one end of the room to the other. You’d laugh at the sight if your lungs weren’t collapsing. Your coach guides you to the beat of his counting. You pant between the volley of rise and falls, racing to match his blitz pace and not trip over yourself.

You’re lucky to have the opportunity to dance with the coach. You can always find him adjusting his many pupils’ posture and choreography, leaving you to figure out the more difficult routines on your own. Doesn’t help that you’re mired in a swamp of homework and can’t attend his late-night advanced classes. Too bad calculus doesn’t make you better dancer. Maybe if you were better at calculating the arc length of a curve, you could execute the rond de jambe coach just threw into the mix during your spin turn. No one in the club, except for a few e-board members, can match coach’s grace and years of experience. You’re not accustomed to his firm and confident direction, the gentle crash of waves on a battered shore, and the inevitable pullback of his momentum. Coach’s silent commands are clear and predictable through your sweaty palms. Despite the guiding pressure Andrew exerts on your joined hands, like in the hesitation, his directions materialize out of nowhere. No signals. Or maybe, you ponder in grim humor, rising and moving your right foot backwards for a back whisk, you just can’t decipher his signals. Maybe you’re the one who’s jamming the transmission and needs to get with the program.

On your left, you spy Saanvi twirling around the opposite corner, eye to eye with her lead. Your partner in crime exudes serenity and assurance in each delicate step. The duo’s poised synchrony and fluid improvisation—a spin turn away from a floundering couple and a perfectly executed back lock—leaves your throat bobbing in envy and admiration. No wonder Saanvi’s the face of all ballroom club advertisements, her gorgeous green eyeshadow and matching bedazzled competition gown enticing admirers into the Disney Princess-esqe celebrations. Of all the competitors, she’s your top pick for placing in international waltz. The judges go ga-ga over her dreamy smile, especially when she weaves before them, bouncing up from a bend between her lead like a coiled spring. How many lessons would it take to reach her quick expertise? Too many for your pockets or grades to afford, you remind yourself. That won’t stop you from playfully hounding her after practice for tips though.

You spin on your heels and feel the coach’s gradual slowdown as you approach the hesitation change. You execute it flawlessly once more, if with a little reluctance in your foot placement, Andrew’s prior actions corroding your focus. At your finale, coach underhand turns you into a graceful bow opposite your imaginary audience. In this case, your handsome partner’s bemused smirk.

“Good job, you kept head on shoulders and not in revolving door,” your coach jokes as your spinning head returns to equilibrium. You chuckle, allowing the tension in your shoulder blades to ooze out under his encouragement. He bows to you with a dramatic flourish and leaves to assist Henry’s dance bending.

“Well, that was a fun crash course,” you say, shaking off the last of the vertigo as you return to Andrew. You offer your hand to him. “Ready to try the routine again? I promise to make up for the height difference this time with my passionate spinning.” For extra emphasis, you give a dramatic twirl, waiting for his sly comeback. Heart pounding, body tingling at the prospect of performing the routine right.

“I should be up to your incredibly high standards now,” you add with a wink, sweetening away any remaining bitter feelings. You’re both in the same competition rank, e-board or not. He may be the treasurer and annoyingly handsome, yet that doesn’t give him the excuse to pull a fast one on you. No uncalled-for hesitation. You need each other to win this competition—or at least get one of the top three spots for international waltz. Then things might work out for real this time.

But Andrew pushes your outstretched hand away and awkwardly averts his eyes when your brows furrow in confusion. “Actually, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to practice with Valentina,” he says, his smile a mix of pleading charm and embarrassment. His request grinds your blood to a stop. He wants to do what now? A draft raise goosebumps across your skin while Andrew flicks an invisible dust ball from his shirt. He not so subtly scans the room for Valentina, looking over your head for the club president’s cutting figure.

A protest bubbles up, ascending like heartburn. Before you can voice it, Andrew shuts you with a finger to your lips. “Wait! Before you complain, let me explain to you my thought process.”

You cross your arms over your chest, your mouth setting into a thin line. “Alright, hit me.”

“So, I realized my natural whisk needs work,” he starts, “and since Val’s taller than you, she won’t struggle as hard to meet my turns. Once she and I perfect the transition into a chasse, you and I won’t have as much trouble on our hesitation. She’s got more experience too and has a better eye for these techniques.” Andrew’s chest puffs, his speech growing with fervor. “She’ll guide us to victory, to winning a ribbon, maybe even one in the top three. Wouldn’t that be awesome? Do you get why she and I need to practice together?”

No, you don’t. You want to jam your heel into his stupid shoes and scream you’ve been trying, that you go to every ballroom social event, practice hard. That you’ve succumbed to the never-ending homework grind, pulling all-nighters on the daily because you must justify ballroom’s increasing costs with your blood, sweat, and tears. That his touch and attention were the highlight of your undergraduate existence and your go-to rant topic with Saanvi. That you don’t want to dance with anyone but him.

Instead, you swallow your scream. “Sure, sounds like a good idea,” you say through clenched teeth. Better to let him get the practice he needs with Valentina and then resume your competition routine without a fuss. You can’t risk upsetting him so close to competition day.

You watch Andrew tap Valentina on the shoulder and grumble obscenities under your breath. Left with nothing to do by yourself, you scan the sea of newcomers for someone in need of a partner. You suck on your teeth, trying to ease the growing frustration with Andrew for hogging Valentina’s attention again. He wasn’t one to shy away from asking her for help, but their sessions would often take up the entire newcomer practice session. You mentally kick yourself for not pointing the fact out to him earlier. But in any case, if he’s going to pair with random people again (and dismiss your partnership contract), he should pair with beginners, not the club president of all people. The newcomers need the expert help much more than he does. Val is kind enough to usually stay after class to answer their questions and demonstrate the moves. It’s just the next layer on the sucky cake that you didn’t ask him to keep an eye on the time or to wait until after practice to ask for Val’s help.

But then a newcomer with jacked arms, an impressive mustache, and warm eyes approaches you, and the resentment melts into anticipation. Maybe it’s your turn to give someone a fun dance lesson. As you assume frame, you spot the curvy, detailed tattoo on his forearm, a Hindi character. Maybe Saanvi could explain it to you later. You also spot the pit stains in his pine green button down, and you brace yourself for the B/O when he puts his hand on your shoulder blade. Dancers burn through deodorant faster than they run through their dance shoes, or so the club joke went.

Rather than an awful sweat stench, though, you smell cologne, the faint scent of fresh earth and sandalwood. It’s oddly refreshing, and you settle into the unfamiliar hold.

Unfortunately, you forgot this young man’s name a long time ago, an unavoidable consequence of juggling a constant stream of partners. Dozens of interested students flitter in and out of ballroom, but only a few stay to learn the art. You learn then to hold onto the ones who take it seriously. In this club, skill and hard work hold their weight in gold.

You were one of those interested few three years ago. One fateful Sunday evening, when Saanvi dragged you into her high heeled, colorfully gowned, goofy shenanigans, lengthy practice sessions, body rocking dance world and changed your life forever. Well, Saanvi and Andrew both. True, Saanvi showed you freedom in dancing, how tango stomps and rapid cha-cha steps release the crackling energy built inside you. But your first ever partner, whose neat-pressed collared shirts, cool gaze, and controlled body rolls convinced you that the ritual sacrifice of your homework time was worth every minute to feel his long legs between your own, showed you how heart-stopping skill and confidence could transform a person. And you were all in on that.

That you secured Andrew as your full-time partner—that he actually agreed to your request—was a miracle, no doubt. A man as practiced as him doesn’t normally sign up with newcomers. After you both signed the partnership contract, you celebrated your new coupledom together at Andrew’s favorite Chinese restaurant.

“A toast to the victories ahead of us,” he said, raising his teacup with a controlled smile and clinking it with your own. You believed it was the start of a beautiful friendship, destined to eventually blossom into a promising relationship. You even marked it on your calendar, cherishing this precious college memory, and sent photos of you two decked out in your ballroom bests at socials for your parents to brag about to your relationship-crazy titas and titos.

When Andrew soon asked you to practice with him whenever your schedules aligned, you pumped your fist and told a nearby, smirking Saanvi who was watching the event unfold, “Mark my words; it’s happening!”

Partner dancing is exhilarating, sure. But dancing with Andrew was transformation into a star figure skater, elegant and powerful. No less on the thinnest of heels.

Then his critiques for your dancing increased the closer you got to competition week. He began asking for Valentina more, or more time with the coach. So, you waited for him to come back and practice with you, taking rounds with the other newcomers. Then when he did come back, he would say, “No, we’re still off count,” and, “Come on, I know you can do better than this.” Whenever you protested his criticisms, he’d humor you at first, but his cold shoulder would further drop below comfortable, friendly temperatures, and you’d have a silent, moody partner to hold. You were left on the verge of pulling out your hair. What could you do? How could you reverse his deteriorating image of you in the span of a few weekly classes? If the competition is this important to him, then it’s your one chance at winning him over. Making everything right again.

So now you smile at the familiar stranger with the Hindi tattoo, and he grins back. Maybe the stars would align, and this’ll be your chance to rediscover the magic of ballroom dance. Andrew would see it and he’d know you’re serious about the art.

The music swells up over the gym’s loudspeakers. Your partner takes a jerky step forward—on the wrong foot. “Sorry,” he says. Then you’re progressing backwards, atrociously off time and in a limp spaghetti noodle frame. No force behind the hold. No directions, no clue where you’re going. It’s dead silence on his end, if arms could speak. You purse your lips and struggle to maintain his weight.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Valentina and Andrew in close embrace, slicing across the dance floor in crisp strides. They’re leaning into each other, their torsos twisted, spines curved for maximum elegance. They move with the sureness of a glacier, gaining traction with every rise and fall on the balls of their feet. The two appear like telepaths, guessing each other’s next step. They maintain an almost perfect symmetry of weight and footwork. You wish your stomach, hips, and thighs touched with such intimacy.

Saanvi swivels, not far behind them, her expression still and composed. Passing her by is Henry, clearly trying to teach confidence in his follow, who remains adamant in staring at her shoes instead of trusting her memory of the choreography.

Determined not to fall behind, you grit your teeth and backlead your supposed lead. Thank God waltz mandates opposite directions for your heads. If you weren’t always watching over each other’s left shoulders, then your eyes would’ve been thunderclouds, zapping this man for not keeping time. Or track of his feet. Freaking Andrew and his obsession with perfection.

The music dies down, and your coach announces the end of Sunday practice. Your partner looks at you expectedly, serenely, without a single ounce of recognition of your grueling effort on his face. You aren’t a stickler for perfection, but your sore toes argue otherwise.

“Good job,” you lie, holding both your hands up to high five him. “Next time, try to keep a strong frame and listen to the first beat of the song. You’ll get it eventually if you keep at it.” The guy thumbs up, and you stomp off to brood in the shadows and collect your thoughts when he’s not looking.

#

After practice, the club walks to Slurp It Up Ramen for dinner. You chat alongside your favorite consistent members, your shared laughter fending off the bitter night cold and unpleasant experiences from newcomer training. Even Henry joined the group, strolling amongst the undergrads on the late outing and seamlessly blending in with the college crowd.

Saanvi walks ahead of you. She breaks from her conversation with Valentina and slows down to match your pace. “Hey girlfriend, you doing alright?” she asks. “I saw you manhandling that guy with the Om tattoo in the last round, though I can’t say he didn’t completely deserve it. I would’ve totally lost my cool if he stepped on my toes.”

“You lose your cool?” I snort, picturing Saanvi the ever-cheerful yelling at some unlucky chap. “I’d sooner finish all my homework on time then you blow up at an innocent. Besides, it happens. We all have to start somewhere—even if it’s on people’s toes.” We both giggle at the thought. “I’m sure that’s how I look when I’m tripping over my crossed feet, especially when dancing with Andrew.”

Saanvi’s grin falls from her face, replacing it with a pitying lip bite. I frown and pull my shoulder bag higher. What’s with her sudden mood swing and the random sympathy?

Saanvi grimaces. She leans in and whispers, “I just heard from Val that her partner caught Covid and won’t be able to go to the competition. Andrew asked her today if they could compete in bronze together. She said yes. They’ve already signed up on the school’s website.”

Impossible, he couldn’t have. “Doesn’t Val rank silver though?” you ask. “How could she compete in bronze?”

“Dancers with close ranks can dance down, so long as the lower partner is the one judged. Andrew’s bronze so he’ll be the one judged when Val dances with him.”

When Valentina dances with Andrew. When she takes your place. When he fucking stabs you in the back the week before competition. The nerve of him! You ball your hands into fists, tasting bile in your mouth and hatred in your lungs. Was all that sacrifice, all that money spent practicing with him for weeks, for months, not worth a damn to him? Was he just waiting for the moment to dump you and steal Val the moment she was on the market? Why couldn’t he have saved you the pain and just rejected you from the beginning? The utter nerve of him!

“Wait,” you choke out, mind still reeling with disbelief. “Doesn’t Val know we were going to sign up together? She’s not the partner-thieving type.”

“I don’t know girl. Val said it was clicking for her, dancing with Andrew. I think she assumed you two split and were okay with Andrew asking to partner up. Andrew seemed to imply that at least when they talked together.”

“But I can still change his mind though, right?” you gesture wildly, feeling Andrew and the competition victory slipping further through your fingers. “We’ve practiced for so long. He can’t just toss our hard work in the trash. He can’t!”

“It’s worth a shot to confront him,” Saanvi admits, shrugging her long braid out of her face. “I’m worried his mind is set if he’s making such an important decision this close to the competition date.”

You stare daggers into the back of Andrew’s head, painfully aware now of the careful maneuvering he took to walk far ahead of you. He hadn’t even talked to you after practice ended, just shoved his dance shoes into his bag and ran out with the first person to leave the gym. So he knows his crime and cares not to face judgement for it.

While you fume, Saanvi rests a hand on your free shoulder. She squeezes it gently, and you turn to her with tears in your eyes. “I’m sorry Eleanor. I know this sucks so hard right now. Andrew’s a total jerk for breaking your partnership agreement. He doesn’t deserve to win anything.” You ache to fall for Saanvi’s warm pacifications, to erase the shards of anxiety and anger ripping your heart into pieces. You wipe away your tears and grumble something about shoving the ribbon down his throat.

“Don’t wear your downer hat yet!” Saanvi chirps into your ear. “Henry was planning to attend the comp and cheer for our school but not compete. You could still ask him to be your partner. I think he’s bronze.”

Your mind drifts back to the elderly gentlemen you dance with at every social. They’re open to the public, so every fellow who knows a single ballroom move crawls out of the woodworks to party with the youth. The wrinkled hands that grasped your own were not sweaty or bony. They were solid, full of vigor, guiding you into an open promenade or a hip bump. The seniors often outclassed the twenty something year olds, despite their knobby knees or hunched backs. They stole the spotlight and pushed a follower into the limelight as well. You’ve even seen an elderly couple win first place in open level standard before—the champion ranking.

Maybe good old Saanvi was onto something.

#

Between the translucent bamboo paper walls and oni illustrations of Slurp It Up Ramen, you watch Henry eat his ramen with delicate movements. He’s a professor of Chinese history and rumored to be the most beloved faculty member in the department. You wonder how long he’s been dancing in ballroom and why you’ve never practiced with him yet. It isn’t like the club is that big, and college faculty were notable additions to an otherwise undergrad dominated organization. There are at least three graduate students who outnumber him in terms of older members. How have you missed dancing with him before, even as a beginner?

Henry twirls the thin noodles around his chopsticks and shoves them into his watering mouth with masterful precision. He blots his gray and black peppered mustache. You hear a peculiar melody over the J-pop ambiance. Is…is he humming in satisfaction?! The wooden chopsticks in your hand nearly snap from your racing blood pressure. You’re going to die at such a wholesome display of soup appreciation. The saying is true: old people are the cutest.

Your healing heart freezes though at the sight of Andrew lecturing the unfortunate newcomers on his side. He sat at the end of the long table, facing Valentina, and pointedly avoiding your end. You swallow hard and dig your fingernails into your palms. Oh, how you’d like to give him the lecture of a lifetime. A little lesson on comradery and commitment and communication. Your frozen heart thaws at the thought and steams in a searing, hateful flame.

He knows you know. He must. Andrew in his tight jeans and expensive shoes no longer cares to acknowledge your existence. Except maybe to reject it without a second thought, no concern whatsoever to your feelings. To your loyalty. To everything you sacrificed to be with him. All for a dumb ribbon he’d probably hang up on his wall and then stuff in a dusty box along with all his college trivialities five years from now. Screw him.

You stand up, your simmering rage ruining your appetite. Everyone expects you to head to the bathroom or maybe to say your goodbyes. What they don’t expect is for you to tap on Henry’s shoulder and ask, “Can we practice waltz together, please? I really need your help.”

Rather than shoot down your request because you’re in a restaurant or laugh it off and ignore you, Henry puts down his chopsticks on top his bowl, rubs his hands clean on his napkin, and grabs you. He pulls you into frame, standing proud and puffed up like a soldier. You hang off his arms and feel them tremble underneath your weight.

Club members stare up at you, a mixture of curiosity, confusion, and dawning horror on what you’re about to do.

Disbelief and a growing flush wash over Andrew’s face, though his eyes don’t dart away when you glance back at him. Let him watch his handiwork. Saanvi pulls out her smart phone and aims it at you, biting her lips to hide her mischievous grin.

Incoming waiters with bowls of steaming ramen on their platter eye you warily. Whatever they’re paid, it’s surely not enough to deal with this unanticipated environmental hazard. They hurry to set down the customers’ meals and evacuate the long, wooden, newly christened dance floor.

“Are you ready?” Henry whispers into your ear. In another world, you could envision him as your grandfather, teaching you the steps to a dance he learned as a kid.

“Yes,” you reply with a resolved nod. Then you two take off down the narrow path of the restaurant. He’s light on his feet, channeling your energy into long strides. There’s no music to accompany your dance, but his sure steps do the counting for you anyway. You whisk, taking three steps back and crossing your ankles, then chasse, shimmying diagonally down the corridor. Henry keeps you from running into the other restaurant goers. Waiters bustle by with full platters in hand, though Henry once more helps you dodge them with his close dancing. You spin a natural turn once, then a reverse turn, even another natural turn again. Then you spot turn and pull into your grand hesitation at the end of the corridor.

Your breath catches in your throat. You’ve never moved with this much grace, arcing in splendid circles around the room, never fearing your steps are too small or your turns half-baked. Now you fly, whizzing past Andrew and his gaping mouth. Past the heartbreak and disapproval. Your synergy is incredible, the unspoken move prompts and striking energy surpassing all your past partners. Each step unleashes magic volts, growing larger and wilder.

Finally, regrettably, you slow down and come to a stop. Gazing up at Henry’s kind face, you blurt out, “Would you like to compete bronze with me in the competition?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just slowly blinks with an unreadable expression. You search his face for a hint, some indication of yes or no.

Then, he gives you a tight-lipped, wisdomed smile, and you know his answer.