For a moment she almost laughed.
The situation was too precise in its cruelty not to provoke that instinctive reaction.
Instead she said, calmly, "Does it matter?"
She didn't know who the father was and Carlo who could have become the father was dead.
There was another pause.
Then:
"Turn back around."
She did.
He had shifted forward in the chair now. His elbows rested on his knees, his hands loosely together as he studied her with the focused attention of a man examining a document he had not yet decided to sign.
"You dance well," he said.
"Better than most. You understand how to move. How to communicate something with your body."
He tilted his head slightly.
"But you are frightened."
His eyes remained on hers.
"I can see it."
She said nothing.
There was no useful response.
Because he was not wrong. She has never danced naked, and the death of Carlos roamed around her head.
