That bitch, Karina. I'm backstage now, fuming. How could she do that to me. That asshole Tom Bergeron sticks a mic right under her pointy Ukrainian nose and asks, "What was off with the tempo tonight?" And she says, "We could have worked harder in rehearsal." No, fuck that. No one works harder than us, harder than me. I'm Ralph Macchio. Macho Man. I learned karate in three months, trained round the clock. I was too good. Toned it down. Avildsen said I didn't look like a bullied kid that ran crying home to his mother.
I look in the mirror, still sweating from the routine. The jive. We nearly mastered it in rehearsals. Something was off tonight though. It showed in the scores. Bruno noticed it right away, the staccato rhythm of our rock steps too wooden, not fluid enough. But don't fucking throw me under the bus. We may have been wooden out there, but we did not fail to prepare. I gritted my teeth and smiled through the insipid questioning.
A knock on the door now, then a creak. "Ralph." Her high-pitched, accented voice drawing the A in my name to grandiose lengths. In the mirror, I see her taut, lithe arm reach for my shoulder. "I just want to aaa-pologize," she says. I spin my heels in a near-perfect inside turn and grab her by the dainty wrist. Her glistening, muscular arm is flexed with anticipation, as if bracing against an onslaught. Her deep chestnut eyes raise from the floor with a mixture of apprehension and concession. Perhaps fear? Damn she is beautiful, I admit to myself. An air of vulnerability has washed over her. Am I a man to fear?
"Don't apologize," I say. Her tension eases. I will say what I need to now. "You meant what you said. There's no take backs in life... in dancing."
I notice I'm holding her hand now in the exact starting position of the 5/4 waltz. We'd done that dance the week prior to critical acclaim, scoring high. How had we gone from that to this? Was it a misstep? A bad week? On the set of Kid II, Morita had spoken of "The Middle Way," a Buddhist tenet forgoing extremism in order to achieve balance. Had I overworked it in rehearsal, done too much, been too perfect and beaten down the edge I need to compete? My mind drifts back to our hands clasped together. I'm feeling vulnerable myself. Confused.
"Remember this?" Karina said, speaking of our hands and the ready position of the waltz. I did. It felt good to hold her again, thinking of our success. A spark lit into her eyes. Then, the inevitable. Our lips locked like two moist, fleshy vise grips around each other. My infraorbital nerve activates from her wet, sensual mouth and sends instant pulses through my body, lighting up sectors laid dormant for too long. I threw Karina down on the couch, my rage transforming into another carnal desire... lust. All at once my delicate psyche - like darkened clouds releasing their impending monsoon - regained and expelled my confidence into the atmosphere.
I am Ralph Macchio again. I will win this competition.
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