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Learning Curve

by Kathryne

     Date: Monday, April 21, 2003 12:37 PM
     Title: Learning Curve
     Author: Kathryne
     Fandom: Chicago (the movie)
     Pairing: Velma/Roxie
     Rating: PG
     Disclaimer: The characters belong to whoever did the movie;
     the story is mine.
     Summary: Roxie watches Velma dance.
     Archive: Silverlake, Glass Onion, http://fic.priestess-of- -elsewhere please ask.
     Notes: Written for the contre la montre show-not-tell
     jealousy challenge; about fifteen minutes.

I watch her out of the corner of my eye when we're on stage together.

I got into the habit when we were in rehearsals and I couldn't keep up. Instead of watching myself in the mirror, I'd look at her and copy what she was doing so that I wouldn't have to have it explained to me again. Hey, it was my first time on a real stage, and she'd been doing it all her life. There was no way I was gonna ask her for help, so I watched.

I picked the moves up real quick, watching her, way quicker than I did watching myself. But even when I got to the point where I could dance clean in my sleep, I kept watching her. She moved different than I did, somehow. I couldn't figure it out, what she was doing. It just looked real good when she did it.

I thought maybe it was her hips, and I started looking at them when she walked. She always moves like she's got music in her head, like she can't just walk but has to keep in rhythm, shimmyin' to the beat. I used to think she was swinging them because she knew she was being watched, but I now I think it's just the way she is.

Or maybe it's her legs. She's got long legs, God, and mine're so skinny. Years of dancing and stretching and she's way more flexible than me, and maybe that's what makes her good.

I couldn't learn what I needed to do different, though, no matter how hard I watched. And every time she caught me watching, watching the way the sequins on her dress caught the light, she'd give me this look that said she knew exactly what I was doing, and then she'd throw herself into the dance even harder. She'd show off, move like some wild wind had hold of her, and then turn back to me with a smile on her face that I just knew was sayin' so-there.

So I stopped trying to figure out what made her so good. She's just better on stage than me, I guess. Maybe I'll never get as good as her. But I'm not gonna stop watching her razzle-dazzle me, because when she turns to me on stage and grins that fuck-you grin, and the music's playin', holy shit! I love to hate her.

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Kathryne

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