“Before you catch a chill? Seriously, how old is this guy?” My roommate Wendy wrinkles her nose at me from her seat on the kitchen counter. An open pizza box rests in her lap, the hot slices lying forgotten.
“Your pizza is going cold.”
She rolls her eyes but picks up a slice. The molten cheese stretches, pulling away in strings, and my stomach growls loudly.
“Want some?”
“No, thank you.”
I cannot afford a cheesy pizza. Not even a single slice. For ballet, I must be strict about what I let inside my body.
An image flits across my brain: Alain Paris’s tongue sliding between my folds. My breath catches.
Wendy whistles. “What the hell did you just think of?”
“Nothing. Shut up.” She cackles as I tug the refrigerator open, unoffended by my harsh words. Wendy and I have lived here with ou
