I Covet What He’s Got

I Covet What He’s Got

In a corner of the YMCA between the ab and back machines, he boogies in his orange-hooded sweatshirt —he’s got moves of The Temptations and Four Tops.

He dips, ball-changes, raises arms, washes air with his palms, and brings his hands down to his large belly for a clap. This, I don’t see every day, and later, when I move to the shoulder press, he’s still at it.

A spin starts at his ankles and reveals his face— eyes closed, hood up, ear buds inserted, lips moving to some Motown favorite, he sways, shimmies, and claps in the corner while dozens of us grimly workout, watching his show in snippets—jealous of his moves, passion, and inhibition.

I want his moves. He’s the only one of us having fun. Fun like age-nine fun: being Gloria Gainer in my black leotard and purple leg warmers in the Bloomfield living room with my little sister. The stereo pounding while Mom vacuumed and Dad mowed.

Our bodies, sweaty and spent, spinning furiously, launching off sofas, and bellowing, I’ve got all my life to live, I’ve got all my love to give…hey, hey.