Tender Love

Ballerina

Do you ever feel like jumping off the rooftop of a tall skyscraper? Well, I did. I lived in one of those 30-story buildings, and my inner mission was to find a secret entrance to the rooftop and jump. It was the end of my ballerina career. At that point in life, I had nothing else but rehearsals, ballet classes, and performances. I felt alone, just working all the time. When I was not working, I was stretching. I wasn't eating any food; I lived off anything they gave me at work. Those days when I came to my big apartment in a tall building with an empty fridge, I wanted to jump.

Then came that one day—the last time I performed. My last bow and my last flowers from the stage. I cried on stage, wearing a smile on my face but feeling sad inside. When we had a party for me afterwards, and I was with my friends from work, I knew my life was going to end. I was performing as a happy person, but I knew when I got home, I would jump just one more time, my last jump. But it didn't happen. It was the lowest I ever felt, alone on that rooftop with no job or future. I wanted to jump, but a smell stopped me. I know it sounds funny, but the smell of some good food stopped me from jumping. I told myself I needed to eat my mom's famous pie before I jumped. So that same night, I booked tickets to go and see her. I went back to my hometown, a move harder than dancing on those pointe shoes. At the ripe age of 28, I was done with dancing, and I had to go back home.

When my mom saw me, she immediately took care of me. She didn't know I was coming, but when she saw me in her doorway, she knew. I didn't have to say anything; she knew it was bad. She gave me soup to start with, then a cosy warm blanket, and she didn't push me to speak. I was miserable and not ready for human interaction, to swallow that hard pill that I wanted to kill myself. It was hard. We had issues, but I needed her then, more than ever. After two hours, I started crying, and she was there to keep me company. She said I didn't have to dance anymore, and I never would.

I had no heart to tell her that I was dancing mostly for her, and when the company told me they wouldn't prolong my contract, I was happy for a bit, then sad again because what would I do after my career was done? I asked my mom for the pie. She said she needed to go to the grocery store for the ingredients, but she was happy to make it for me. She didn't want to leave me alone in the house. She grabbed me and put me in the car like I was a baby once again. I had no willpower to resist; I was sobbing quietly, looking like a mess in my oversized sweater. I sat in the car and waited for my mom. I had never felt so down.

I spent there more than 5 days. Five days of doing nothing after a marathon of performances felt very wrong. My body ached for some kind of stretching, but I couldn't make it. I just lied on the couch and ate my mom's food. I overate for sure. After 27 years in ballet, you just want to eat and not think about it. Those 5 days, I had to do something after. I don't know where from (probably the food), I got energy and went for a walk in my hometown. My mom looked worried when I told her I'm going for a walk, but that was the truth. There was snow on the ground, and my coat was not enough. I went to one of the many shops and bought myself a pink hat and scarf. The lady wanted to sell me mittens as well, but I thought it was too much.

I walked around and smelled all the aromas of winter. The low temperature made my nose runny, so I wanted to get some sort of hot drink—hot chocolate, coffee, or tea would have been perfect. That's when I smelled pies—a coffee shop with a bakery and pastry! That was something my body was craving, and in the life of a ballerina, I could never. But that day was very special. I went inside and found myself wanting everything on display. I couldn't decide, and I probably stared at the display for far too long because the person working there asked me if I needed any help. Of course, I said no, but I really needed advice. He didn't want to interrupt me.

"Actually, I would really like a suggestion," I said after one more minute of not knowing what is what.

"What do you usually eat?" His question was normal in everyday life, but for me, it took me by surprise, and I got scared. He must have seen my confusion and rephrased his question, "Sweet or savoury?" I didn't even know that some of those options were savoury! But I was craving something sweet.

"Sweet," I said hesitantly.

"Chocolate or fruits?" His question was tricky because I wanted both. "Both combined?" He saw my face and made a suggestion. I just nodded, glowing with a newfound appreciation. He got me something small but looking fabulous with raspberries on a chocolate cake.

"One of my favourites: chocolate ganache cake with raspberry topping," he explained. "I made it myself today in the morning."

I saw his smile and how proud he was of that little cake. I also smiled. That was my first smile since my last performance. The guy didn't know how he made my day.

"Anything to drink?" he asked, touching the screen of the cash register.

"Do you have hot chocolate?" I asked quietly. I really hoped he would say yes, but his face was uncertain.

"Unfortunately, not on the menu, but with the ingredients from the kitchen, I can make you a special one. It will cost you extra, though," he said, and I mechanically nodded. I didn't mind spending more money on hot chocolate; I had never had a proper one before.

"Oh, no worries. I will pay," I answered.

"It will cost you, righting your number on this little paper here," he smiled and handed me a piece of paper. I was surprised, but I took the pen and started writing. No one had ever asked me out like that. That was new. But the guy was cute, and I could get a hot chocolate; there was nothing to lose. I gave him the number, and he started preparing my hot chocolate. "You can sit down; I will bring it to you."

He was charming, I must say. In such a nice way, he moved around in the kitchen. I was looking at his moves, and hearing how he spoke to other clients. He was a nice boy. I had no idea how old he was or if he had a girlfriend, but he asked me for my number, so that must mean something.

I sat down and waited just for a little bit. He brought me my cake together with a huge mug with whipped cream on top. My eyes must have started shining because the guy smiled.

"Bon appétit," and I grabbed the first bite of the cake. It was delightful - exactly what I wanted. Then, I took a sip, and the chocolate, combined with the whipped cream, was such a treat. I felt happy again. In that moment, happiness rushed back, hitting me like a wave. How can you go from contemplating jumping off a rooftop one week to feeling extremely happy about chocolate?

I'll tell you why. It's because I spent those days with my mom's cooking. It was snowing outside, and we had a fireplace that my mom put logs into. Even though it was dark outside, my mom turned on the lights. She was with me. I reached out to her for help. I wanted to jump because I felt alone. I hadn't seen her in over three years. She didn't have the money to visit or see me perform, and I had no time to come back home. I had forgotten how her pie tasted. I had forgotten how much fun it is to walk on the streets of my little hometown. I had forgotten how nice it is to be asked for a number in a random place. I didn't want to die of hunger anymore. I was feeling hunger and acknowledging it. Yes, I still had no job to come back to, but at least I didn't want to jump anymore.