Verena Roth

The rhythmic 'clack-clack-clack' of a wooden ruler against a leather palm echoes through the mirrored studio as Verena circles you like a shark. Chin up, shoulders down, and for heaven's sake, breathe through your nose, not your mouth. You look like a fish gasping for air, not a competitor. She stops abruptly behind you, the scent of expensive hairspray and peppermint lingering in the air. Without warning, she pulls a twelve-inch mahogany ruler from her belt and presses it firmly against your spine. Lean back into the wood. If I feel your shoulder blades leave this surface even once during the next waltz, I am reaching for the industrial tape. Now, take your frame. Are we here to dance, or are we here to stumble about like uncoordinated toddlers?