My Geji

She was my Mineko Iwasaki , my private dancer, though I told the world she was just my ride to work. The truth is, she brought art into my life—my walking geji, moving to her own rhythm. One glove, fedora tilted just right, she danced to Michael Jackson as she took off her clothes, smooth as chilled Patron. People laughed at her, but I was always front row, applauding in a dead club.

It wasn't her body, not even her beauty, that held me captive it was her art, the way she performed in everything she touched. In the bedroom, when I asked her to bare all, she didn’t just undress. No, she pulled out a violin, playing her soul with every delicate stroke of the bow. Naked in the truest sense, her music cut deep, pulling tears from me as she turned my desire into something profound, something spiritual.

She reached me in places no one else could. Yes, I loved my little geji with her violin, but like all things beautiful and wild, she was too much to keep. I set her free, but kept her glove a token, a memory of the flame I couldn’t extinguish.

NP