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😈 The devil and his wife

by Sarina Dorie

Everyone says their landlord is the devil. When I met mine, I pretended I didn’t notice his red skin or hooves. I told myself I don’t judge people based on their skin color. I didn’t want to assume he would be every stereotype I had ever heard. At least with a landlord living on site, I could expect it to be quiet, and he’d be quick to make repairs.

Fast forward three months later. As the windows rattle in my tiny studio apartment, I curse myself for my stupidity. It sounds like a thousand buckets of rain pelting the windows and the wind is about to blow the complex down. My grandmother used to have a saying about that: the devil is beating his wife. In this case, I am pretty sure the devil and his wife are beating each other.

He stomps his foot above me, old paint fluttering down from the ceiling. He is probably using his pitchfork again.

He shouts, “Curses, woman! You are the foul temptress of man. Who needs me, when your feminine curiosity plagues the land? And don’t get me started on your sins of vanity.”

The walls of my apartment rattle. Something explodes above my head. The devil’s wife shouts back, “That is so chauvinistic! That’s just like you, blaming women for all of men’s faults, you old bluebeard.”

Experience tells me they’ll be at it for hours.

I now regret signing that rental agreement in blood.

😈 Two steps from hell 

Everyone told me if I was serious about social dancing, I needed to take lessons from Ramira. I booked a private lesson with her at Hot to Trot Dance Studio. As soon as I stepped into the dance studio and noticed the cavern-like appearance and flames, I realized I was in trouble. For one thing, my slacks and button up shirt would be too hot. For another, I didn’t think I was ready for this level of torture.

Ramira greeted me and introduced herself. I couldn’t take my eyes off her pitchfork.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” she said.

I led her in the cha cha, mambo, waltz, and east coast swing. It was hot and smoky in the studio, and I labored to keep up with her.

She shook her head. “You need to work on your posture, your rhythm, and your technique.”

I danced all night. Ramira prodded me with her pitchfork when I made mistakes. My feet became blistered and bled. I wanted to rest, but she wouldn’t allow it.

“I’m in Dante’s Second Circle, aren’t I? I’m two steps from hell. For God’s sake, let me rest,” I begged.

“You think this is hell?” she asked. “Ha! We haven’t even gotten to the polka. Now there’s a two-step from hell.”