I’m in love with Joey.
But on that stage, when Rick cups his hands underneath my diaphragm and lifts me over his head, I resist every urge in my body not to fold myself around his torso and give in to the primal sexual nature that rosin powder and ballet slippers have tried to chisel away for the last four years.
We’ll be attending Julliard in the fall — we three — and share a studio apartment in Greenwich Village.
Joey tells me he’s OK with it. He kisses me and says he loves me, too — even though he knows, some nights, I’ll want the bed alone with Rick, while he curls up in a blanket on the floor.
Scholarship Becky calls me a whore for loving two men at once, but she’s just angry she has to move back to Kentucky when the year’s over. No chance Julliard would accept four students from the same school.
At our final dance recital, Rick hands me a bouquet of roses from our instructor just before the curtain falls. I inhale their sweet scent, kiss a petal, marking it with the darker shade of my red lipstick. Joey walks up from behind and drapes his arm over my shoulder.
“We have so much ahead of us,” Rick says.
Joey nuzzles my earlobe, whispers, “As long as we’re always together. Nothing can go wrong.”
Written for VisDare, a weekly challenge to craft a story based on the provided photo in 150 words or less—or more, as is always my case…