The Red Ballet (Furry NSFW Gay Dark Romance)

Chapter I

How can one be so bored and stressed out at the same time? It feels like there should be a rule about that, just like that one where you can't be scared while bored. I've heard that somewhere. I'm not sure it's true though. My skin always feels like it can barely contain the lack of energy underneath it. Restless, yet like I need to escape it.

I look at the clock. Cheap plastic, red paint chipped down. It can't even be called a red clock anymore. It's an ugly, pale, yellow, clock. I'm sure the store owner hung it over the small counter I have to stand by just to mock me. See? Your life is wasting away here. And I barely pay you the legal minimum for it. It's funny. He never even comes in besides once a week to yell at me and the other two employees for not selling enough. We can barely stifle our laughter when he does. I know that it is merely part of him being a pig, but those squeals that slip out with every other word... And what does he even do with all that time he's not here? He clearly can't make that much off of us from this small grocery store, even if there were a bunch of customers.

And the only customers who seem to come in here are the ones who are in a rush to grab a drink or snack before sneaking them into the theatre on the other side of the street. The red neon lights flicker in your eyes. Krasnyy Balet. The Red Ballet. It isn't only a ballet. They do stage-plays, operas, and even have a hall for cinema. But anyone worth the ludicrous coin they paid for their seats is there for the ballet. Ballerinas come from the world over for the mere chance to grace their feet on the russet wooden stage, designed by Lucianna Giardino five hundred years ago. As a woman in that time, and a skunk at that, being recognized as a genius in her own lifetime was almost unheard of. But none could deny it, not when they saw every wooden fibre of the stage telling a story. No, really. I hadn't been in there myself (on this pay!?), but I had a book where they showed pictures I've read more times than I can count. Thousands of tiny carvings covered the floor, stories of animals in love, in war, in peace, in starvation, in dance.

But who would want to see a pudgy rat's thick tail flailing about on a stage like that?

I clenched my fists.

They'd laugh even if it was a children's school play.

I tried to steady my breath. It was just a thought.

And yours is a mere dream. A nightmare for all who would see.

Oh great, the mocking inner voice thinks himself a poet.

What, perhaps that is my dream? Do you wanna switch places or something?

I was pulled out of my back-and-forth by the doorbell. The noise clawed at my ears, but at least I was back to reality.

Oh, it's one of the workers at the theatre. He doesn't say hello as he runs around the whole store as if searching for something. There seems to be a pattern and determination to the ways he leaps from aisle to aisle, but what those are is beyond me.

"Euhm-" I start, realizing that it is in fact in my job description to help customers who are clearly out of their depth to find what they are looking for.

"What?" One of his horns smacks into a metal cabinet as his head snaps to face me. Ow..." The whine comes out with the peculiar vibrato of a goat. Perhaps he's an Ibex goat at the theatre? I've heard they're often employed for their climbing abilities, to set up the stage without the need for scaffolding. He's clearly not a dancer, that much is certain. Quick and acrobatic, but there is no grace to his movements. He rubs his horn with a short-furred paw. Tufts of white, thick strands of hair stick to the grooves of the horn, making him look more dishevelled than he already did.

"As I said. Euhm..." Should I ask if he's ok? He's a goat, surely that couldn't have actually hurt. I've seen goats ram straight into walls without as much as a headache.