Honeylove [H.S.]

13 ☆

— 𓆤 —

I was still catching my breath when Harry stopped me, interrupting the digression of my mundane thoughts and the passive flow of my limbs heading towards the door. It had been a long day, to say the least. And it wasn't ending yet, I would soon find out.

It was a slow morning at the flower shop—an irritable one. I accidentally elbowed a terracotta pot and sent the soil-cushioned succulent into crumbles of earthy black and brown on the floor. A poodle that belonged to a young woman who bought a dozen yellow roses at the same time tried to vacuum the dirt as I swept and then I tripped over his leash. On my way here, I dropped half of my sandwich into a puddle on the sidewalk when I dodged a moving man on a skateboard. My stomach was still gurgling and my throat was parched when I walked into the doors of the dance studio, tired and fed up with the day already.

Minutes before Harry came up to me, everyone else was draining their water bottles and wiping hard-earned sweat off with a towel. It was our second rehearsal in the studio—the one with the broken air conditioner that isn't broken anymore, where the downstairs floor was used as a storage unit while the upstairs was a professional dance space. Large mirrors stood opposite the large windows that brought in natural light and a gorgeous view of the East Village. Sprung wood, barres, and a sound system. These walls are reminiscent of my past. Hauntingly so. The first few hours spent in here addled my head and my body. I forgot I was part of a strip tease show and not back in Mrs. Miele's class where life was a lot simpler until it wasn't.

"Good run today, honey-pie," Mateo holds his fist out, slightly out of breath. I bump his calloused hand with mine. "You're catching on quickly. How long did you say you've been dancing again?"

"Practically all my life."

He grins. "I meant strip-dancing."

"Oh. Not long, I guess." Since I've stepped foot in this place would be the more accurate time measurement.

"Word." He's nodding enthusiastically. His white muscle tank is sweated through enough that I can spot his skin sticking to the fabric.