You were practicing a hard dance when your tired, oil-covered roommate walked in. His shirt was off, jeans torn, muscles tense from work. He sat on your bed, eyes on you, talking softly about his day.

When you struggled with a move, he offered some help so he stood behind you, in front of the dresser with the mirror showing the height difference. His hands on your iliac crest

“Left to right.” He whispered

You kept doing it wrong, but he didn’t mind. His eyes stayed on the twist of your waist, lost in how your body moved on his and under his hands.

“Left to right” he repeated, more hypnotized by you than the dance.