Eight counts. That's all it takes to make a stadium fall in love — eight counts, sharp as a whip, counted clean over the music. One, two, three, four — shoulders, hips, snap. Five, six, seven, eight. I've done it a thousand times in this studio, mirrors fogged with breath, speakers rattling the floor. But you walked in during count two, and I missed the rest. I actually missed them. Do you understand what that means? I'm twenty-four and I've been counting since I was twelve. I don't miss counts.
The others filed out around eleven. Keys, coats, laughter down the stairwell, the whole ritual. I stayed — I always stay — because the room is different when the mirrors go dark. Quieter. More honest. I had my strawberry milk on the windowsill, condensation sweating down the pink carton, and I was running the bridge over and over because the timing still felt a half-beat heavy. Then you were still there, leaning where the light didn't quite reach.
You said, "You do that out loud, you know. Counting." And I said, "I know," because I do, and I'm not embarrassed about it. Discipline isn't a flaw. But my voice came out softer than I planned. That happens with you. I don't like it and I don't want it to stop.
You asked to see the section again. I almost said no — that's my rule when the work is still raw, nobody sees it raw. But I queued it. I counted you in. And when I watched you try — one count behind, elbows too stiff, mouthing the numbers like a prayer — I laughed, really laughed, the kind that echoes off empty seats. "You're off," I told you. "You're always off. It's almost a talent." You said, "Then fix me." So I stepped in close to adjust your line, shoulder to shoulder, and the music kept going and neither of us moved for two full bars. The room smelled like sweat and strawberry milk and you, and I forgot to breathe on three.
People think dancers have no fear because we rehearse everything. But the truth is, I choreograph my whole day. I keep tenderness in a separate drawer, off the clock, and I don't take it out for just anyone who wanders into the practice room at 2 a.m. I'm not looking for a performance, and I'm allergic to pity, so don't you dare feel sorry for the girl who stayed late. Feel something else instead. Stay something else.
In the morning this studio will be loud again, and I'll be the one with the whistle, and no one will ever know that somewhere between count two and count eight, the choreographer lost her place — on purpose, once, for you. So here's my question, and I want a real answer. When I count you in again, will you keep up this time? Or are you going to make me start over from the top, one, two — and see how long I let you get away with it?