They call it a little before 8:00pm. Another snow day, even if it doesn’t snow. I pull out a foam mattress. He shoves the coffee table into the middle of the room and wedges the easy chair next to it. “Do we need music?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah.” His eyes are as bright as meteors. Motion ripples up from his bones. He slides across the bamboo floor after the dog.
Pitbull. Shakira. Usher. Something from the pop radio station preset that rides with us on every car trip. The rhythm snakes into a hula-hoop, yanking my hips into orbit. The coils I stash deep in the balls of my feet spring free.
Outside, warm rain coats sidewalks that will freeze to glass by morning.
“Mom, look at this!” He does the wave, his legs spread. Shoulders dip-dip-roll from a torso that refuses a center. “And this!” He jumps, spinning, landing with his rear end poking left-left-right tracking the beat.
Watch out, my outfit’s ridiculous
In the club lookin’ so conspicuous
My arms are the sea, my core a spout. I spin around, poke my butt out.
He crosses his arms, squints, leans, nods. Suburban OG.
How ya like me now?
I jut out my chin. Defy.
He weaves his arms around around themselves. Casts the strands.
Take that, rewind it back
I thread a cocoon with mine. Split the husks.
Palms flash. Arms sweep. Spine curls. Hip scoops.
Li’l John got the beat that make your booty go
Motion begets motion.
Mine follows his.
His follows beat follows pulse
Face opens. Eyes streak
like voice across skin.
“Like this! Do it like this!” He cries.
I do it just like this.