Conversations From Afar

ballet / 25

Cam holds my hand and it feels like a treat. To walk down the sidewalk with his arm against mine, our steps thoughtless but nearly synchronized. To be part of an us instead just a me.

"I can feel your questions," he says, laughing.

I hold his hand tightly, leaning into his arm. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see." He smiles, just a cheeky little twist to his lips, and brings our hand up to press a kiss there. "So, that was the famous non-creepy Ellis, huh?"

"Yeah...what did you think?" This was one of our usual questions, back when we met people together; our thoughts on them were sometimes more important than the people themselves.

"He's interesting...is he gay?"

"No," I crinkle my forehead at him and he makes this expression, like he wants to kiss me, but doesn't. "Not that I know of."

"Huh. Well he seems nice." He shrugs, and guides us into jaywalking across an empty street. I follow resolutely.

Nice. "What."

"What, what?"

"Nice isn't good."

"Hey, he seems like a nice person. A little stare-y, but whatever."

"Well, I'm glad you approve."

"I'm glad you're glad, birthday girl."

* * *

"You have to be really quiet." He says, at a murmur, walking us down a carpeted hallway. The door at the end has grand curtains on either side like the site of a theatre (like, plays and drama-theatre) or something.

"Okay," I whisper back. He squeezes my hand, and we duck past the heavy double doors.

There's a stage, empty as I would expect for eleven thirty on a Saturday. He tugs me into the back row, and we slump in the exact middle. I prop my feet on the seat ahead, and we settle into the close, borderline cuddle position we assume for any type of movie viewing, like we were never apart.

Then the music starts, and I notice the group of people at the front. Musicians. An actual, live sort of symphony. A tripping, wandering violin followed closely by the fuller cello. The music winds around us, and I frown up at Cam.

"Just wait," he murmurs.

And she glides out from behind the curtain. A ballerina, wearing small shorts over tights and a loose black t-shirt. She curves and curls her body in graceful ways that appear anatomically impossible. She's not at one with the music, but riding it and rising above it.

More spill onto the stage, from crumpled curling bodies to swaying, pirouetting ballerinas. They're all in casual clothes, their hair in ponytails, but it's perfect.

"This is the Winston ballet company. They're here performing tonight." He whispers, his breath close, and teasing the flyaway hairs escaping my ponytail. "I've always preferred rehearsals to actual performances. Sure, they're less polished but they're so much looser. See how relaxed she is? That never happens on the actual stage."

I don't respond, but watch as they casually meander off stage for the first intermission. One of the cellists goes off on a loud, spontaneous solo and the rest of the musicians laugh, freely.

"I see it," I say, softly, as if this is a holy place and not an almost-empty theatre.

I look up and he looks down in one of those perfect movie-moments where you just know the characters are about to start kissing.