The heavy bass pulsed through my skin, alchemizing my old bones to stretchy, strong muscle. I danced and whirled and spun and slid, my body melting like liquid into the music.
Then, silence. Laughter and the sound of high heels on wood floors echoed off of the dance studio’s mirrors.
I opened my eyes to see three young women dressed in tight-fitting shorts, crop tops and sandals with five-inch heels stood at the door.
The prettiest one gazed at me, blue eyes framed by long blond waves. She was accustomed to getting attention, and even I felt the magnetism of her smile.
“It’s time for pole-dancing class, grandma,” she said. Her cohorts tittered like sparrows at breadcrumbs. “Why don’t you stay?”
She was a mean girl. I knew plenty from my days on the floorboards. You didn’t make it for 17 years on Broadway as a dancer without knowing how to take a knife in the back — or the front. I wanted to restart the music and dance, but my studio time was up.
With one hand, I grabbed the pole and scissored my legs around it, executing a perfect Hollywood spin. Blondie’s mouth hung open.
“Maybe next time.”
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