The fold

He's twenty-six. He came to class and then he came back. I told him the truth at my kitchen table before I let him touch me. He didn't flinch. That is why he was allowed to stay.

On the mat he put my ankle by my ear and held it there, not roughly, just certainly. Open, he said. I was already open. He fucked my cunt like that, deep, watching my face for the wince that means joint and not pleasure. I know the difference. I told him when it was good. He pulled out, slicked himself, and took my ass while my leg stayed up, and he said, very evenly, look at you. Old ballerina whore, still holding the line. I came on the phrase. Not because I hate the years. Because the sentence was accurate and filthy and said without a sneer.

He used my mouth last, folding me so I could taste the other two, same voice. I thanked him the way I thank a partner who didn't drop me.

He stayed for tea. He did not ask me to be younger. I would have ended it in the doorway. The melancholy in me is for the dancing. This is the opposite of mourning. This is a body still being asked for everything it can actually do.