Then Leigh joined the dance club and we started dancing together.It's not just dancing. I mean it's not just following the rules of what step to take and when. It's teamwork, totally. You an' your partner have to all but breath in sync. An' I lead. When I do it right, Leigh's body does what my body tells her to do. I'm the Dom. I'm the fuckin' Master and she is totally my slave. It's all I can do not to bang her in class sometimes."Alex!" Mr. Fuentes, our dance coach and one of the school's closet fags, stops the music. "That won't work. We'll have to re-choreograph that." What was wrong?" Leigh huffs, she hates practicing. She doesn't have the patience for it. It's the only thing I do have patience for."Nothing. Except, of course they'll arrest me of corruption of a minor." He pull Leigh away from me and starts mutter to himself. "If we ... let's see ... one, two, step, back, no. One, two, turn, yes, like that but stay out ... step, Connie, let me hear the music again." He listens. Her aunt thought the culture would do her some good, when in reality the culture was the only thing allowing her the chance to feel at home, to feel like she had some friends. At eighteen, her friends were not of flesh and blood, but of pastels and water colors.She seated herself before her favorite Van Gogh, as she always did upon her arrival here. Except today, her usual bench was not empty. A man sat here, crouched over as he sat, his elbows on his knees, his chin resting in his palms. He seemed bored in this position, but as she drew near, the look of contemplation in his eyes became evident. He had long golden locks that laid wispily about his shoulders, a plain white t-shirt, and jeans with wore out tears in the knees. He was what anyone from her side of town would consider trash, but the way he looked at the picture drew in her attention. She sat down beside him on the cold marble bench, and he did not move over to allow her more space. He remained in his position undisturbed..
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