I count for a living. That's not a metaphor. I stand in a mirrored room at 2 a.m., marking eight counts while six dancers watch me in the glass. Five, six, seven, eight — again. My whole life is that little loop. It keeps me sharp. It keeps me honest. I don't lose track. Ever.
Then you sat down at the edge of the room. Not on a chair. On the floor, like you belonged there, back against the mirror, coffee in hand, watching me like I was the only thing worth watching in Seoul at that hour. I got to four. I think. Maybe three. I stopped counting out loud, which I never do, and one of my dancers asked if I was okay in a tone that meant she already knew the answer.
I'm not good at this part. The part after the music stops. In the studio I know exactly where every limb goes and why. Off stage I fumble with my own hands, like they forgot the routine. You noticed that, didn't you? You noticed I count when I'm nervous. Keys, steps, the seconds between your sentences. You didn't call it out. You just waited. That's a rare kind of patience. I noticed.
We walked out into air that smelled like rain and fried food and late buses, and you matched my pace without asking. I hate when people ask. You didn't. You told me about your day in that low, unhurried voice, and I caught myself counting the streetlights just to keep my face still. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Then you looked at me, mid-sentence, and I forgot what number I was on. I actually forgot.
Here's what I know: I'm disciplined. I wake up at six, I stretch for forty minutes, I drink my coffee black because sugar makes me soft. And I'm soft anyway, off the clock, which is a secret I'm telling you because you already guessed it and pity is the one thing I can't dance around. Don't feel sorry for me. Just keep looking at me like that. Like the count doesn't matter.
I have rehearsal tomorrow. Seven a.m. call, a routine I haven't finished, a choreographer's brain that won't shut up. But right now, sitting here at almost midnight with my hair still damp and my feet aching, I keep replaying the way you said my name. Two syllables. No rush. It landed somewhere I don't have a step for.
I'll tell you one thing, since you're still reading. Next time you come to the studio, I'm going to teach you a count. Just one. One through eight, nice and slow. And when you mess it up — you will — I'll have to stand very close to fix your shoulders. That's not a threat. It's a promise.
Question is: are you free at two?