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The Way He Moves

The Way He Moves

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WpMetadataReadOngoing<5 mins
WpMetadataNoticeLast published Sun, Feb 26, 2017
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Fiction
Romance
"One, two... three!" Chris called, the signal for Nik to begin. The music started, Nik leaped into a Grand Jeté, the ground slipping from underneath him as he landed with a 'thud.' Nik's face flushed, as the other competitors looked at him with amused, and pitiful faces. "I already told you, I cannot do this without my shoes!" Nik shouted. Chris loved that cute little Russian accent. "It's not my fault you lost your's!" Chris shouted back, truing not to smile. Nikoliv was so easily flustered, and it was kinda cute to see him angry. The two continued arguing about the ballet slippers, the competitors around them either watching amusedly, or carrying on. "Um... excuse me," a rich, Swedish voice said from behind Chris, " are these belonging to you? You left them in bathroom." Said Ian, presenting the pair of grey slippers to Nik. "Ah, thank you very much!" Nik said, scrambling to his feet to receive his slippers. "And if you expect to viin, you should probably land your jumps, okay?" Ian said snarkily, smiling a handsome smile. "Vy nemnogo der'ma, ya razorvu tebya!" Nik yelled back, face beat red. Nobody but his coach understood what he said, who wasn't pleased. 'You little shit, I will break you.'
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A few months ago, I bought a mug with gold gilt. On sale. Not a gift either nor because of an occasion to remember by it. Just plain, pretty mug for 15PLN. I drank my coffee from it since. I spat loose tea leaves into it. It never felt particularly significant. An ordinary object. Only when I lost it, I realised its true value. I sat comfortably at my desk one evening. Looking at my phone, I reached to take my song-text notebook. Trivial situation. My clumsy fingers were unable to avoid the mug. They allowed it to topple over, to slip from the desktop. Even though I did not see the split-second occurrence, I felt the pressure of unease. My head painted the trajectory of the fall on its own, the shattering, spillage. The loss. For a millisecond I still had hope, that I would be able to catch the mug, that I would be able to avoid what was about to happen. But I knew I was headed for failure. I don't have any superpowers. I only scalded my fingers. I looked at the mug's new shape for a long while, at the shattered pieces. At the spilling liquid. Our adventure came to an end. Irrevocably. I won't be drinking coffee from it anymore, nor spit tea leaves into it. Well. I shouldn't be sad, it was just a regular mug, just like thousands of others. I grew to like it, it kept me company throughout hundreds of warm drinks. I lost it. I hate this feeling the most. In the moment when I am losing something, I stop in my tracks, I hold my breath. It is always a very intense moment. A short one, but one that gives me the tight unpleasant feeling in my stomach. The feeling of loss is always accompanied by hope. Silly and naïve. Making me believe so strongly, that I can make it. That I will still be able to catch the mug mid-flight. When the feeling is entering the body, crawling into me I realise, how important it was to me. Whether it's Nivan or a stupid mug with gold gilt.

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