“Eli, what the fuck happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m done with dancing. I can’t do it. I’m done.”

“Eli, what are you talking about? That’s bullshit. Literally everyone can dance.”

“I can’t,” I sobbed. “I can’t remember the steps, and I’m too weak. Look at me. I get tired so easily. Mr. Miller is right.”

“Mr. Miller? I see. Yeah, Eli, Mr. Miller is an asshole.”

“Of course you’d say that; you’re my friend and-”

“Yeah, I’m your friend, and Mr. Miller is an asshole. He made an entire class of six-year-olds cry last week. The only reason he’s still around is ‘cause he’s related to the owner of the Center.”

He put his arm around me and shoveled a bunch of paper towels in my face.

“Clean yourself up. You look like crap, people will think I beat you up. Listen. I mean it. Every fucker under the sun can dance. And you know why?”

I stared at him, honestly lost. I wanted to say “Because they have talent,” but I felt it would go against his positive reinforcement efforts.

“Because it’s fun,” he declared. My face must have betrayed my rampant skepticism because his mouth broke into one of his crooked smiles.

“Tell me. When was the last time you had fun dancing?”

I opened my mouth to shoot an immediate answer, but my mind couldn’t keep up with my sassy impulse. I got lost in thought. I actually couldn’t remember.

“There you go. See? Of course you’re gonna suck at it if your hobby stresses the shit outta you. No more Mr. fucking Miller. You’re gonna dance with me from now on. I’ll get you transferred to one of my classes tomorrow.”

“Lex, look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I can’t just waltz into yet another class and–”

“Fine, individual classes then. Even better. If it’s only us, then Nate can come to watch and drool over you without registering as a visitor first.”

“What if I suck?” I blurted. “What if I suck so bad and I piss you off? We’ll fight and–”

“Eli, for the record, I don’t give a fuck if you suck or not. We’re not aiming for the New York City Ballet here. You’re gonna come, we’re gonna shake our asses around gracefully, and after that, you’re gonna buy us pizza.”

So I went. And he kept his word. He did not give a flying fuck if I did it right. He’d show me one, two, three, a hundred times. He was not stiff, he was not formal and professional; he was my friend. My friend who had perfect control of his limbs despite his huge frame, and taught me that indeed, no matter the size, shape, or talent, every fucker under the sun can dance, as long as they are having fun.

I rediscovered the beauty of ballet. And in time, I even dared to try other dancing styles. Latin Rhythm dancing. Social dancing. Street dancing. Tango, waltz, Salsa, Hip Hop, Bachata, Ballroom, he even got me trying belly dancing. He could dance almost any style, and he dragged me along with him. He sometimes volunteered me as his personal guinea pig partner to practice a new technique.  We tried it all. 

And now, we were undergoing the ultimate test: a free-style competition held by the Sports Centre. Meant for amateur couples, the pair was expected to come up with a three-minute choreography that fused at least three different styles and perform in front of the entire community.

It was terrifying, and competitors were a big no-no for me, but we had made it personal: Mr. Miller was one of the judges.

We had three weeks before the grand event, and I still had trouble remembering the steps. Lex had simplified the choreography three times already, and he said I had the dancing equivalent of an artist’s block. Or like he actually said, my creativity organ was constipated.

Nathan hit play, and the music filled the room. We had chosen one of Sia’s most popular songs. She was a favorite artist of ours. Her music somehow made us feel empowered and sexy.

“Lex, come get in position,” I urged, anxiously. The first step sequence was about to start, and he was still walking toward me.

“Start on your own, you don’t need me for the first 20 seconds of the routine.”

“Yeah, but you know I mess up if you’re not in place.”

“That’s the emotional self-sabotage constipation we have to clear, Eli. Come on, deep breaths. Picture a spiritual enema cleansing your soul's guts.”

“Please stop with the scatological allegories.”

He jumped into position at the very last second, and only then was I able to actually engage with the moves. I moved mechanically, rushing through the steps in my head, trying for dear life to picture the next one after the next one to give myself some buffer.

Our choreography was meant to tell the story of a young man getting ready to go out and waste his time and money in superficial flings, until he suddenly ran into someone he had insane chemistry with, and then both of them surrendered to the magnetic force that bound them together.

At least that was the script. I must admit that even though I was performing all the steps, I felt so stiff and tense that I doubt I was giving a very sensual show.

“Loosen up, Eli,” said Lex, mid-turn. “You’re in a nightclub hitting on dudes. Entice me.”

“Sorry,” I gasped, attempting to move my hips seductively and failing. “I’m having a hard time picturing you as an enticeable dude.”

Before he had time to defend his, and I quote, “raw fuckability,” his phone rang really loud in the distance. The sound echoed in the studio. Nate picked up for him, and we heard him speaking in Spanish.

“Lex!” he yelled. “Your mom’s on the phone!”

“Shit! I forgot she was calling today,” he gasped, rushing towards the benches. “Be right back, Eli; keep going on your own.”

“I’ll– I’ll wait for–”

“Nope!” he interrupted, smiling over his shoulder. “Go on. So-li-to.”

He grabbed his phone and left the studio, leaving me alone in the middle of the dance floor. I froze. I couldn’t remember the next couple of steps; the whole routine flew out of my head and followed Lex outside. Why was I so darn nervous? There wasn’t a single soul watching me. Not even Nathan; he was texting frantically, probably catching up with the thousand messages he had ignored the previous night.

I took a deep breath, listened to the music, and tried to find my pace. 

Jesus, I just couldn’t. Completely blank. I pressed my temples, frustrated.

A loud whistle startled me. I looked up. 

Nate waved at me, jumped down the benches, and waited until the song hit the chorus.

And then he danced.