By Tony Mitch

Jill was a would-be ballerina too scared to pursue a career in the field. I was a dance critic only interested in real dancers who stretched in the morning, took class, rehearsed by day and performed at night. I had no time for half-assed dancers. I did, however, have time for a lay.

I first met Jill at a modern-dance showcase. She was giving out fliers. Though she was in her late twenties, she had that young-intern glow. Noticing her squared-off shoulders and waddle walk, I asked her if she was a dancer. "Not really. Not full-time."

"That's great," I said, trying to sound encouraging.

Two months later, Jill called me. I was working at Vibe and submitting reviews to Dance Magazine. She wanted to get together that night. When I got to the Grassroots Tavern on St. Marks I was already stoned and drunk, having loaded up with some of the Vibe editors on the fire escape. I wondered if I'd remember Jill. When she walked in, I did. She had a great big Disney smile—fine for the Magic Kingdom, but absolutely tragic on St. Marks.

We had a few drinks, and I spewed all that I knew about modern dance. If you'd a heard me you'd a been sick. She told me she worked part-time at the Wall Street Journal, that she took dance class every once in a while but that she "really wasn't sure if she wanted to be in a dance company." It was apparent she wasn't a real dancer, at least as I defined it. And since I had an agenda—fucking dancers, real dancers—I immediately felt she was disposable.

We headed over to Webster Hall for a magazine party. I ignored her, going so far as to get a phone number from another girl there. Since I was a classic blackout drinker, I've forgotten most everything until I walked Jill to the PATH station so she could go home to Jersey City. On the corner of 6th Avenue and 14th Street, she pressed me against the subway railings, grabbed my package and torpedoed her tongue down my throat. Then she got on the train and went home.

I didn't call.

A month later, Jill called on a Friday night. I was taking a flight from Newark to Florida the next day, so I decided to spend the night at my friend Mohido's in Hoboken, mainly since I knew I was going to get drunk and staying in Hoboken would improve my chances of making the flight. Mohido was out of town.

By the time Jill showed up around 6, my fingertips were numb from the rum. Jill wore red lipstick. "How's the dancing," I asked.

"Not that good," she said, sighing. "I'm not really dancing. Just working this stupid job."

"Try to find the time," I said.

"My rent is so high. I have to work. It sucks."

"Maybe you can get a roommate."

"I already have one."

"I'm sure there's a way. There's always a way," I said, clenching my weakened fist.

With that, Jill pulled me off the couch and pushed me into the bedroom. I was too-drunk-to-fuck wasted, so I yanked her pants off and went straight for her clitoris. After a short while, she pulled off my pants. I acted eager about it, like I really wanted to pull them off and get into it, but in the back of my mind, I knew that I wouldn't get hard. I was getting bed spins, and I couldn't feel anything below my waist. Still, she started sucking. At first I was flaccid, but she sucked with great deliberateness. A real champ. I tried to pull her head away to give her warning, but she insisted.

She curled up next to me and put her head on my shoulder. For that brief moment I felt something like love, or at least companionship. We lay there for a while and I said, "Gimme a minute. I'll be ready in a minute."

Then I was hard again. The next thing I knew, it was 7 in the morning and I was placing my foot on a used condom on the floor, getting ready to make leave for my flight.

I didn't see Jill again for four months. Some girls are like that. Whatever.

We met next at a matinee performance of the Martha Graham Dance Company at the Joyce Theater. I liked Graham's work, something geometric about it, hard and masculine. Afterward, Jill and I went to Merchants on 7th Avenue for a drink. It was late afternoon, my favorite time to drink, and I ordered red wine for both of us. I was sure we were going to fuck. I promised myself I'd stay conscious. Somewhat.

But then she started in with, "I feel like dance is getting away from me." And into a fusillade about her problems—work, apartment, roommates, a tattoo artist she'd been dating. I became agitated. I started checking out the bartender, looking out the window.

"Well," I said, "it's not easy to be a dancer, to be any artist for that matter."

"I know."

She said it too quickly. "Do you really know," I asked. "I mean in your heart?" I punched my chest. "If you really knew you wouldn't be whining about it. You'd be taking classes, auditioning for a company. Doing whatever fucking dancers do. Or you'd a taken your full-time job and shut the fuck up about dancing."

She burst out crying.

Making a girl cry is next to hitting her. The bartender eyeballed me. I blamed myself, hugged her, apologized. I was surprised. I mean, I'd seen her four times in my life.

At the E train on 14th, Jill looked a bit more composed. I asked her if she wanted to come back to my place. She just sort of stared at me, then smiled. I wanted to fuck her, but it was more like an afterthought. Like checking to see if the envelope fell through the mailbox, or if you'd locked the door on the way out.

"Thank you," she said, squeezing my hand.

I went to an Irish bar for a drink and watched my expression in the mirror. Then I walked back to the Joyce Theater and hung around the stage door, waiting for the dancers to return for the 8 o'clock performance.