Audition

“Task: manipulation.”

This means I start on the ground, tasting it with my cheek, my stomach, the tips of my fingers. It’s smooth wood over a sprung floor, connected to walls of mirrors and barres.

I wait.

The press of his fingers against my left wrist sends my arm around my head, then back to my side. His palm places mine into the wood. His knee nudges my foot, trying to make me stand. But he doesn’t pick a stable position. Oops. Dead weight, I crumple. Improvisation exercises aren’t easy, even when I am the one who listens, rather than directs. He tries again, and again, until his body is around me, knees and elbows and torso, guiding me, one soundless instruction after the next. I am dancing across the floor in his movement. We get lost like that, strangers in conversation, wordless in an open room.

“Task: initiation.”

The next level. Now, I am no longer required to mold with his skeleton, passive with his every move. He pokes my right tricep, and I whip my arm past my neck, taking his suggestion into a spin. He follows, catches my foot. Pause. He pushes it to the ground. I plant it, step past him, swing my other leg over his head. He’s listening, senses it coming—he ducks and pivots, finds my knee, sends me careening to the floor. I tuck and roll. He follows. He blocks. I melt. I’m sweating under my hoodie. In a two-minute break I pull it off, steam curling against the ice-lined windows as we readjust. The clock ticks away, quiet under the rising music.

“Task: escape.”

Red rover. American football. Etc. My socked feet skid against the floor, split-second re-direction. He curses and tries to catch me, both of us laughing, ridiculous. His arms wrap around me from behind. He sits on my foot, clings to my leg, pins my shoulder. I wriggle and giggle, arch backwards, yank my foot free and scramble on all fours for the door. Outside, I know, is a Manhattan street, millions of people sprinting to their next destination. What would they think if they saw us now, sweaty and laughing, tackling each other for the hell of it?

“Task: trace.”

A gentle glide, skin over skin. An improvisation of equals, of listening and responding. His forehead slides across mine, down my bicep, over my elbow, until his neck rests in my palm. But he does not give me his weight. We slide out of it, each caught in our own dance. Intertwine. Disengage. Constant motion. The music cuts out halfway through, full silence in a tiny room—we must have reached the end of the playlist, but there’s no need to stop, not yet. Our breathing echoes against the rustle of clothes. Our music is the slip of my foot across the floor, the back of my hand against his rib cage. His finger down my spine. My chin on his heel.

“Okay,” the director says at last, her voice cutting us apart. “Thank you both very much.”

We step back, return to ourselves. He holds out his hand.

“Thanks for dancing,” he says. “I’m Mark.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I reply.

We shake.

The director whispers to her assistants and opens the door. We’re done for the day. We gather our belongings from the corner, then part ways at the elevator (he takes the stairs).

Already, I struggle to remember his face; I never saw it while we were moving. Maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll both make it to the callback.

I step onto the street and quietly shed the intimacy, already moving on to the next task.