Stalking The Dancer

DOROTHY

The rusty hinges squeal as I pull on the door, and moths swarm above my head beneath the glowing floodlight.

It’s the middle of the night on a Sunday, the only hours that the studio is guaranteed to be empty. Everyone is driving home from competition weekend, where they will rest in a futile attempt to repair a week’s worth of damage in a single night. I don’t want to be anywhere near this place when the first instructor flips the lock, and I definitely don’t want to see any of my team members or classmates. Some of them feel genuinely bad for me, but even those girls struggle to hide what’s really happening in their heads: there’s an open spot at the top of the ranks, and it won’t stay empty for long. The dancer in them is glad that my career is over, because it makes room for them. I haven’t come to terms with my feelings on that yet; knowing that the girls I spent my entire adult life with were rooting for me to fail, in some capacity, the entire time I’ve known them. But I can’t blame them, because that fire burns in me, too. I’m just not ready to face them, not on crutches or in this cast. The thought makes my stomach burn.

I walk through the doorway and am overcome by the musty aroma of home, a smell that used to make my heart race with excitement, now making it sink. The cracked tiles beneath my feet tell the story of every dancer who’s walked over them. I’ve come through that squeaky door thousands of times in my life and the sensation never seems to get old for me, and now it never will. The click of my crutches in the silence is a sobering reminder of why I’m here rather than passed out on a bus seat with a first-place trophy in tow. The cast on my right leg weighs me down in more ways than one.

I head down the hallway to my right and scan the metal lockers that line the wall as I go. Stopping at number twelve and turning, I balance on my crutches so that I can twist the lock until it clicks and the locker pops open.

Empty, aside from my silver chain dangling from the coat hook, I snatch what I came for and stuff it in my hoodie pocket. I’d cleared everything else out last week, the last time I was supposed to be here. But in my sexy-as-hell pity party, I forgot the most important thing I own. The star charm brushes across my fingers as I pull my hand out of my sweatshirt.

Maybe I should put it on.

No, I want to leave in case anyone’s coming back tonight. No time to waste. I’m not technically allowed to be here, or to still have a working key for that matter. But getting close to the studio owners slowly revealed information about this place to me, including its security: there is none. A camera sits above the front desk for ornamental purposes only. A threat to anyone who didn’t know better. It hasn’t been functional in years.

I’m hobbling toward the door as the hairs on my arms stand straight. A chill runs through me and settles behind my neck, like someone’s watching me. The sensation is unmistakable, but I can see that the parking lot is empty aside from my shitty, white Honda Civic, and I’m the only person in the building

Against my body’s warning and my better judgment, the fear of being caught by a former teacher outweighs the fear of being brutally murdered by a stranger in the parking lot. My crutches are clicking along the tile once more as I shove any discomfort to the back of my mind. The door is properly locked up, and I’m fumbling to get my key ring back in my pocket for a few seconds when the goosebumps spread like wildfire for the second time since I’ve been here.

I don’t give a fuck about the keys anymore as I rush to get in the car and lock the doors. My breathing slows at the safety my car provides, but the feeling that I’m being watched doesn’t go away.

I think I might be losing my mind.

***

The sun beams me in my right eye and steals my dreamless sleep. I roll onto my back and stretch like a cat. My blanket is wrapped around my cast in a burrito and my clothes from yesterday are crumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed.

My tiny studio has a kitchenette and a bathroom, the only amenities to note. The building is old, and the deli downstairs is very loudly open twenty-four-seven, which makes this a pretty decent place for me to hide from anyone I never want to see again.

The past few months have felt sort of like my world was sucked out from under me by some cosmically cruel vacuum. I’ve been spinning through life with no steady income or living situation; it was like everything became temporary overnight. Except for me and the fact that I’m here and thatI have to survive somehow.I just can’t figure out how.

I roll out of bed with a groan and grab my crutches, the only thought in my mind is getting a bagel from downstairs. I probably have something I could eat in the fridge, but Mrs. Schwartz makes fresh bagels every morning and I’m not a monster. Or allergic to gluten, thankfully..

Mornings at Schwartz’s Deli are always busy. The front room is alive with people bustling in and out, the line leading to the counter moving steadily. It’s loud, although I knew that without coming downstairs, and the bell above the door seems to ring in an endless chime.

I like the hustle and bustle of a busy place much more than eerie silence, which is all I had growing up. My mom still lives in the little town I grew up in, the same creaky house, and the same overgrown lawn; going home is like looking at a picture, it never really changes. Sometimes I feel that way, stagnant in my life, and it makes my skin crawl. I like to stay moving, never still for long enough to overthink myself into a hole. Seven weeks ago, the doctor told me I’d never dance again, and I’ve been walking through life in slow motion ever since. Rather, hobbling through life.

My mom took me to my first dance class when I was two years old, and I never stopped. It’s all I ever wanted to do, the style never mattered much to me. My peers found specialties throughout the years, but that didn’t happen for me. I dance for myself, in whichever style the day calls for. I’m not perfect by any means, but I took every class that my local studio offered three times over by the time I graduated high school, and found a spot on a team not long after I decided to move away. Getting the gig just meant I knew where I was headed, but I never expected to end up stuck here after blowing up my career.

I’m halfway through the line when the little hairs on the back of my neck alert me to someone’s presence. It’s the same feeling I had last night, that I’ve been having for the past few months. I look around the deli, making uncomfortable eye contact with anyone who will look back. No one piques my interest, the people around me seem to be minding their own business. I stand on a tiptoe to glance out the window, but there’s no one out there either.

I think I must be going insane, but then a light tapping falls on my shoulder. To my embarrassment, it’s the older woman behind me asking me to move forward in the line. I do my best to shake off the strange feeling, and forget about it entirely the second I bite into my breakfast.

BILLY

It’s been a long day.

There’s nothing I like more than ending a long-ass day by watching her get ready for bed. Her window gives a clear view of her watermelon-patterned pajamas, the shorts not quite making it under her ass cheeks and her thin top riding up, revealing her pale midriff.

She’s moving around the room like a clumsy fairy, floating in circles as she cleans. She twirls around and picks up garbage as she goes, clearing clutter from the few surfaces she has at home. The cast only slows her down occasionally, but I can’t decide if she even notices it.

I can’t take my eyes off ‌her, and it’s a cross I’ll bear until I draw my last, pathetic breath.

If she were mine, I’d be up there making her ass red for leaving the blinds pulled up during this little show, but she’s not, so I won’t. I’ll just thank fuck I’m the only creep here tonight, making this a private viewing.

The street is dead, and a breeze brushes past me, carrying the memory of the first night I stood in this spot, watching my girl. I’d first seen her walking from her car to the dance studio, her face bright as she waved to her friends. But there was something else in her eyes, something I recognized immediately. The same loneliness is in my own eyes, and I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

The second time was inside studio A, doing a routine that has been coiled around my soul like a snake ever since. She was teaching it to my sister and her team, the younger girls sitting on the sidelines were still as statues, and I think we all held a collective breath for her as she moved through the space with a commanding grace only possessed by seasoned dancers.

I felt shockwaves roll through me to my soul, and need took root in my chest. Need for this woman; to know her deepest secrets, her darkest desires. Need to watch her body move that beautifully for me.

Only for me.

So I followed her home, against my better judgment. I stood in a spot near where I stand now, watching a similar moment of her life play out like a private showing. She didn’t have a cast on her leg then.

The cast is a recent development that has me feeling more homicidal than I’ve ever been, which is saying something. She disappeared for a few weeks and came back on crutches. I don’t think my hands have stopped shaking since.

My eyes track her as she plops onto the bed before lying back the rest of the way. She pulls her phone from a crumpled backpack on the floor and starts scrolling her way toward sleep. I wonder what she’s looking at, who is absorbing her attention like this. Her expression seems to change with each scroll, and I decide she must be reading, although I don’t know what. My palms are itching, and I’m walking down the street to my bike before I can even think about it.

I’ve had an obsessive personality since I was a kid. My probation officer used to say I have no self-control, but every step I take in the opposite direction of that woman is proving his sorry ass wrong. I never stole because I couldn’t live without it, I did it because I wanted to, and nobody was there to stop me from taking... until they were.

My Harley is parked in the alley where I left her, and the only sounds I hear are the cars that are driving downtown tonight. It’s almost midnight, so I toss a leg over my bike and listen as the engine comes to life beneath me. It’s the only sound that shuts my mind up every fucking time I hear it.

It’s a fifteen-minute ride before my tires hit the gravel lot outside of The Oake. Something, or someone, else hits the gravel closer to the building as I dismount and head toward the door. The streetlight illuminates him enough for me to recognize Ray standing in the open doorway, the drunk idiot on the ground is a stranger.

“Get your ass in here, Bill!” His gruff voice has my feet moving a little faster, but it’s enough to make him chuckle and slap his big hand down on my shoulder as I walk into the bar. “Made it just in time, trash freshly tossed to the curb and all,” Well, he’s in a mood tonight.

“How are things?” I ask casually as I lean on the bar and wait for Antoine to grab me a beer.

“’Bout the same as usual, I s’pose, but-,” I hear the bottle before I see it as it slides to a stop in front of me.

“Don’t let this happy dick fool ya, he’s been getting it on the regular and he won’t bring her around, either!” Antoine is laughing before he’s finished talking, so much that his eyes are squinting closed and his hand slaps the bar top as he leans over.

“Well, I was getting there before my employee interrupted me.” Ray only ever pulls the boss card as a joke, but he didn’t become as successful as he is by messing around. I don’t think I’ve ever met a guy who worked more hours than he does, yet I’ve never heard him complain about his job.

We spent the next half hour shooting the shit about Ray’s new girl until he’d had enough and turned the tables on me. “What about you, then? Did you ever find the one that went missing on ya a few weeks ago?” I see the smirk he’s trying to hide, but I can’t force out more than a grunt in response.

“Shit, Billy’s got a woman too?” I don’t know when Lee got here, but I wish he’d piss off before I break those pretty teeth his mommy paid for.

“She’s not my woman, she’s a woman that I... know.”

Ray can’t hold himself back anymore, laughing loud enough to cause a hush across the room. “Get this, Ant, he’s never met her.” He wheezes from the stool beside mine, he’s not the only one laughing at me now.

“Damn, Bill. I thought you were done with that shit,”

I cut him off, “I am. This isn’t like that. I like her.” I say without lifting my gaze from my beer.

“You liked the last one too, she didn’t like ya so bad you ended up in the pen,” Lee says somberly. I glance down the bar to meet his waiting stare before tipping up my bottle and polishing it off.

“I haven’t gone near her. Watching, that’s all. Just watchin’.”

My friends are silent for a few seconds before someone behind me breaks the tension, “That’s some freaky shit, man. Kinda hot though, I could probably get into it.” I turn to meet my best friend’s blue ass hair and his smiling face hiding under all the silver piercings. I can always count on him to get me out of whatever shit I get myself into, and the same goes for him. Unfortunately that means he can also give me shit like no other.

“So is it like sexual watching or what?” He sits on the empty barstool to my left and orders a beer.

I debate whether to answer before I finally settle on ’fessing up, “Nah, not really. I mean, she’s sexy, but that’s not why I do it.”

I shake my head like an idiot and take another drink, “When I watch her, everything else goes away, it’s just us. She makes me feel safe, I guess. Makes me sound like a pussy, but I don’t know how else to say it.” I’m starting my fifth beer of the night and I feel the alcohol buzz in my veins.

“Sounds like you’ve got it bad, Bill. What’s the chance she’s got a felon fetish?” Asking the big questions upfront is Rome’s specialty.

“Prolly zero, that’s why I haven’t made a move.” I shrug.

“It seemed like you made some moves when you hunted her for two weeks straight.” Ray shoots with a chuckle before pushing himself from his seat and heading toward the back office; work never waits around here. Lee moves down a stool to fill Ray’s spot before asking if I’ll be at work tomorrow,

“Think you could squeeze the FXB in the shop this week? She keeps riding like it’s her last, and I don’t intend to let her die on me.” Lee collects vintage bikes; where most collectors display their bikes and keep ’em covered the rest of the time, Lee rides the shit out of his. Knows he can’t take them along when he kicks the bucket, so he intends to be the one who rides them into the ground.

“I’ve got room to keep it, but that’s a forty-year-old bike, Lee. We might be playing a quality of life game here.” I reply. My palms start burning, were they itching before now? I can’t remember, and my head is getting foggy.

“I gotta get going, drop her off between eight and three, office closes then,” I say without offering him a second glance, I’m up from my seat and stalking toward the door.

The door is swinging shut behind me as I hear Rome’s voice cut through the crowd, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Big Bear!”