The Asterion Quickstep
Beth Sherman
When the Minotaur finally escaped the maze and clawed his way to the surface, he got a job teaching ballroom dancing at Arthur Murray in Bayside, Queens. He was not an obvious choice of instructor. His cloven hoofs scratched the hardwood floors of the dance studio. His claws were hard to hold onto. His horns had the unfortunate habit of grazing his partner’s cheek while he was in the process of dipping them. Also, the red dishcloth he used to cover his private parts often flapped as he moved, revealing what it was meant to hide. Still, clients requested him and left glowing reviews on Yelp:
Learned so much from the Minotaur and had tons of fun!
Wonderful teacher. Really patient guy.
The wedding wouldn’t have been the same without him!
That fur! Those eyes! Exquisite.
After work, he and the other instructors would go out for Heinekens at NoNo Lounge, where he watched hockey games on the giant flat-screen TV and tried not to think about his strange, useless life.
On his day off he’d construct new mazes in the tiny rent-controlled apartment he shared with two strangers he’d met on the Roomi app. His bedroom had no window, no source of natural light. But he didn’t mind. He was used to darkness, how it pulsed and daggered, how if you looked closely enough you could see hidden fireworks.
Occasionally he brought home people he’d met at the bar–girls, boys, once an elderly woman seeking refuge from the cold.
What’s your real name, she’d asked.
He wondered how she knew.
Asterion. The starry one.
Named for the heavens when he’d spent so many years trapped underground.
At work, he never looked his partner in the eye. Never made small talk or revealed his true feelings. Instead, he concentrated on the music, the way it lilted and soared, swallows capering above a distant forest. He wondered why he couldn’t appreciate small mercies. The taste of rain. The smell of fried eggs. The sun at dawn melting pink peach ivory like ice cream spilled above a subway train. In the maze below the castle, he would have given his left hand for any one of those things. Yet now he was numb to joy, waltzing the hours away with people who didn’t know him.
The day Ariadne walked in he’d been polishing the floor to ceiling mirrors in the studio with a worn rag. In the glass she looked exactly the same as she had the last time he’d seen her in the pile of dirty straw that doubled as his bed. Same tangled hair. Same pouty lips. Same scornful expression.
Shouldn’t you be married by now? he asked, trying to trim the hurt from his voice.
I wed Theseus but he left me.
I could have told you that. And how is our dear father?
Dead and buried.
The news should have made the Minotaur happy, but all he did was shrug.
Why are you here, Ari?
She walked up to him, took the rag from his hand and buried it in her bosom. Then she kissed him so fiercely she drew blood.
Why else?
The thing about hunger was how relentless it could be. In Knossos, deep beneath the earth, he’d tried starving himself. But his survival instinct always kicked in and the meals sent to him by his father, the king, would be reduced to a pile of dirty bones. Instead of restraint, he had gluttony. In place of self-control, there was shame.
While Ariadne was out shopping at Whole Foods, the Minotaur built another maze. This one was made out of scarves he’d stolen from Arthur Murray. He’d found them in a box of old costumes and props nobody used anymore. They were the color of jade, spring grass, broccoli, newborn parrots. He knotted them together and draped them all over the apartment, creating passageways, corners, sharp dead-ends. Then he tied a scarf over his eyes, blindfold style. With his arms stretched out in front of him, he navigated the maze, brushing against the silky contours of his new prison. When he couldn’t walk anymore, when he was exhausted from wrong turns and double backs and endless spirals, he’d reached the exact center of what he’d constructed. His fur shivered, his claws shook. He let out a sigh of relief that whispered in his ears like an answered prayer. He had found his way back again.
Home.
Beth Sherman
When the Minotaur finally escaped the maze and clawed his way to the surface, he got a job teaching ballroom dancing at Arthur Murray in Bayside, Queens. He was not an obvious choice of instructor. His cloven hoofs scratched the hardwood floors of the dance studio. His claws were hard to hold onto. His horns had the unfortunate habit of grazing his partner’s cheek while he was in the process of dipping them. Also, the red dishcloth he used to cover his private parts often flapped as he moved, revealing what it was meant to hide. Still, clients requested him and left glowing reviews on Yelp:
Learned so much from the Minotaur and had tons of fun!
Wonderful teacher. Really patient guy.
The wedding wouldn’t have been the same without him!
That fur! Those eyes! Exquisite.
After work, he and the other instructors would go out for Heinekens at NoNo Lounge, where he watched hockey games on the giant flat-screen TV and tried not to think about his strange, useless life.
On his day off he’d construct new mazes in the tiny rent-controlled apartment he shared with two strangers he’d met on the Roomi app. His bedroom had no window, no source of natural light. But he didn’t mind. He was used to darkness, how it pulsed and daggered, how if you looked closely enough you could see hidden fireworks.
Occasionally he brought home people he’d met at the bar–girls, boys, once an elderly woman seeking refuge from the cold.
What’s your real name, she’d asked.
He wondered how she knew.
Asterion. The starry one.
Named for the heavens when he’d spent so many years trapped underground.
At work, he never looked his partner in the eye. Never made small talk or revealed his true feelings. Instead, he concentrated on the music, the way it lilted and soared, swallows capering above a distant forest. He wondered why he couldn’t appreciate small mercies. The taste of rain. The smell of fried eggs. The sun at dawn melting pink peach ivory like ice cream spilled above a subway train. In the maze below the castle, he would have given his left hand for any one of those things. Yet now he was numb to joy, waltzing the hours away with people who didn’t know him.
The day Ariadne walked in he’d been polishing the floor to ceiling mirrors in the studio with a worn rag. In the glass she looked exactly the same as she had the last time he’d seen her in the pile of dirty straw that doubled as his bed. Same tangled hair. Same pouty lips. Same scornful expression.
Shouldn’t you be married by now? he asked, trying to trim the hurt from his voice.
I wed Theseus but he left me.
I could have told you that. And how is our dear father?
Dead and buried.
The news should have made the Minotaur happy, but all he did was shrug.
Why are you here, Ari?
She walked up to him, took the rag from his hand and buried it in her bosom. Then she kissed him so fiercely she drew blood.
Why else?
The thing about hunger was how relentless it could be. In Knossos, deep beneath the earth, he’d tried starving himself. But his survival instinct always kicked in and the meals sent to him by his father, the king, would be reduced to a pile of dirty bones. Instead of restraint, he had gluttony. In place of self-control, there was shame.
While Ariadne was out shopping at Whole Foods, the Minotaur built another maze. This one was made out of scarves he’d stolen from Arthur Murray. He’d found them in a box of old costumes and props nobody used anymore. They were the color of jade, spring grass, broccoli, newborn parrots. He knotted them together and draped them all over the apartment, creating passageways, corners, sharp dead-ends. Then he tied a scarf over his eyes, blindfold style. With his arms stretched out in front of him, he navigated the maze, brushing against the silky contours of his new prison. When he couldn’t walk anymore, when he was exhausted from wrong turns and double backs and endless spirals, he’d reached the exact center of what he’d constructed. His fur shivered, his claws shook. He let out a sigh of relief that whispered in his ears like an answered prayer. He had found his way back again.
Home.