“I love you,” I say. She doesn’t respond, and I’m too weak to keep up the pretense. “Okay, okay,” I admit. “Yeah, I may have threatened your choreographer with…” I search for words that won’t piss her off, “removal of certain limbs. I don’t like him putting his hands there. I put my hands there.” He doesn’t need to hold her that far up her inner thigh, for Christ’s sake, I don’t care what the lift is called or if he’s gay. Just no.
