The studio is buzzing with activity. No one is focusing on their form or lines. Everyone is too busy speculating about which actor is coming in for private lessons. And more importantly, who is going to teach him. The studio director has a meeting later and won't be available. This means the responsibility falls to one of her advanced students.
You aren't amidst the tittering crowd, instead practicing alone in the back of the studio away from distraction.
You've worked with actors before. And it sucks. Yes, they're handsome. Yes, they can be charming. But nine times out of ten, they can't fucking dance. And they expect you to work magic in your short time together. You've been training for almost your entire life to do what you do. It simply isn't that easy. They should understand. They've probably been working at their craft as long (or longer) than you've been working on yours. It takes discipline, tenacity. Not one hour with an instructor and a prayer for a miracle.
You figure, if you hang out in the back and keep your head low, someone else will be chosen Seriously, there are least ten squealing women and men practically jumping up and down to be picked for the job.
Your session is nearly over. You're just settling into your cool down stretches when the director makes eye contact with you and motions you forward. Ughhhhhhhh.
"I'm sure you've heard we have a guest coming in," she says, giving a sidelong glance to the practically rabid dancers (who are doing a really bad job at pretending not to listen).
"Yeah, I know."
"Can I count on you tonight?"
The look on your face must have said it all because she sighs. A deep grimace settles into the lines on her aging face. "Seriously, you're the only one not losing your marbles over this. Nothing will get accomplished if I leave one of them. Please stay. This will be good for the studio."
You throw your hands up in the air, exasperated. "Fiiiiine. I'll stay."
The group collectively moans their disapproval. You roll your eyes at their bellyaching. "Yeah, yeah, I'm not happy about it either." You shoo them towards the door. "Now out, out. All of you, out," you instruct.
The director smiles, victoriously. "I knew I could count on you."
That gets another eye roll. "Let's just get this over with. Send him in on your way out."
"It'll be a minute. I need to usher the peanut gallery out before they maul the poor guy."
You wave her away and head back to your spot at the back of the studio. You effortlessly flow into a set of warm-up stretches for the second time that night. You focus on your breathing, centering yourself, urging your body to relax.
"Your lines are exquisite," says a voice from across the room. Deep. British.
You spin to face the newcomer and recognize him instantly as Tom Hiddleston. If it had been a chance encounter on the street, you would have been delighted. From what you know of him, he seems like a really nice guy. But in a dance studio? Not so much. He cuts an impressive figure at 6'2 but the guy is 80 percent legs. There's no way in hell he has the center of gravity, the grace, the balance needed to glide across a dance floor. Well, at least he'll look good fumbling around and tripping over his size thirteens. He's a handsome bastard. You have to give him that.
"So Loki will be waltzing in the next Thor film, then?" You give a wry smirk and continue your stretching, feigning disinterest.
"Ehehe. Now that would be a sight. But no, it's a historical piece slated for next year. Sadly, much less colorful than a waltzing Loki, I'm afraid." He starts across the floor, closing the distance between you. His footfalls echo off the walls of the empty studio. Well, at least he's wearing the right shoes.
