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sweet prince Stretch those long thigh muscles allongé, feel the pull and release of pressure. Don’t look in the mirror, stay focused. You know you look good, especially in tights. Not many men can say that. Mikhail Baryshnikov, eat your heart out. Ignore the shadows on your face, your cheeks aren’t looking hollow. A trick of the studio lighting. Or maybe you didn’t have enough for dinner last night, the past few nights. Ah, the price of being an artist. And don’t start thinking about Horatio, not now. He always loved to watch you dance. Stretch again, arms this time, luxurious feel of nerves responding from fingertips to shoulderblades. Shiver with it. God, was warm-up always this sexy? Or does being alone make you crazy, like they say? You’ve kept yourself limber. Better stay that way, while the time is still yours. Don’t listen if the new choreographer says you’re too thin--he’s just jealous. But swear off cigarettes and champagne, for the hundredth time this week. As if that would make a difference. Just dance, dance while you still can. One hand on the barre, rise and pull yourself in one upward line, the length of you balanced en pointe. Feel the balance as you hold it, the tension that keeps you together. Sweet. Like summer red wine from Provence, like "grande pas de deux" from the lips of a real French poet. Damn magnificent dance for two. Ah, ah--you promised you wouldn’t think about Horatio. Forget the way he read Mallarmé in the evenings, and the way you understood perfectly though your only French was merci beaucoups. How easily he gave you the poetry. And you can’t curse in English anymore. Merde sounds so much more filthy. Give in to the temptation: watch yourself sidelong in the mirror as you bend your knees into a plié. Look at the smooth line of those legs. You make it look easy. People can’t help but stare when you get up on stage; that’s how you landed so cat-footed into the Ballet Company in the first place. And why they sent you to Paris last year, to study with a real ballet assemblé. First position. Of course you’re as good as they think you are--you’re better. Have fun in France, they said--don’t eat all the funny-named cheese! Second position, then third. But nobody warned you against the fair-haired poets, sitting in cafés, moodily sipping latté. Even the French get the blues, they just call it "l’azur." He noticed you right away, probably your pathetic French when you ordered at the counter. Who knew how many letters to leave off the end of the word, anyway? The Company was depending on your attitude de face, your unembarrassed self-assured presence. When he saw your smile, a shadow lifted from his face. Fourth position, and then the choreographer walks in on you. Fred, or is it Frank? Who cares. He’s only been with the Company a few weeks. What does he know? His whole round bald head is flushed. What’s he miffed about this time? You’ve just gotten back from France, you deserve private warm-up time. The man looks hopelessly overweight, out of place in Birkenstocks and bad plaid. Frustrated playwright with a frustrated love life, now a ballet choreographer. Or at least that’s what he’s telling everyone. You bet the missus just got sick of his ‘artistic judgment’ and kicked him out of his humdrum middle class house. Meet his eyes shamelessly, not moving from your faultless fourth. Shake your dark hair over your eyes. Hasn’t he ever considered Hair Club for Men or something? He stands there getting redder, furious. Smoothly move to fifth, without even having to look at your feet to know you’ve got it. "Something the matter upstairs, darling?" you ask sweetly, knowing that makes him uncomfortable. "Any time you’re ready," he says tightly, through his teeth. "Angela is waiting." You’re taller than he is. Flash him a sparkling grin, watch him squirm. You know how bright your smile can be. Drop him a bow, liquid muscle. Horatio would have laughed, to see such American flippancy. To hell with it. "Je sais--I know. The danseuse will just have to wait a little longer." "Swan Lake’s in less than a month. The days are slipping away." He just doesn’t know. Him and his pitiful mid-life crisis. But he’s still talking. "Today you and Angela are practicing the grand pas de deux, Chris," he tries again. But you hear "Can I call you Christophe?" in that rich French voice that made even cheddar sound like brie. Cheese. You’re losing your grip, aren’t you. Sigh patiently, straighten yourself. "I’m sure our Odette won’t begrudge me a stretch." Wink. "I’ll be more flexible that way." When you turn your head you see Odette herself standing in the doorway, her fair eyebrows twisted in her scowl. Angela eyes you, toe to crown, like a blonde hawk. "Come on Romeo," she says. Amazing how much of a voice got crammed into that petit pink leotard. "Oui, Juliette," you drawl, swallowing the stiffness at the back of your throat, the aching tingle in the back of your nose. Odd, with a name like Horatio, he’d never even read Shakespeare. Good American student, you laughed when you heard the French way he spoke his name. You thought you’d be kind, warn him you’d only be in Paris for a year. He laughed so hard tears ran down the bridge of his fine French nose. The irony. He only had a year, too. And he gave it freely. Catch Angela in your arms so she doesn’t have a chance to maneuver away. Both your bodies know the routine, know the dance for two. She must be getting used to you--she doesn’t bitch though her shoes aren’t even laced all the way. Diva pecking order: who’s the bigger prima donna? She’s really worked up; you can feel the strained thumping of her heart against your chest. If she were only a little taller, you might be able to imagine she was someone else. But Horatio would never have worn that day-glo shade of pink. So what if he had two left feet--for you, he danced anyway. Learning the rhythm with you, pulse-pressure against you, till he didn’t step on your feet anymore and you could have wept for the poetry of it. Movement smoothed the amateur angles of his elbows and knees and you didn’t even notice. At some point, you forgot which one of you was supposed to be the beautiful one. That’s saying something. Angela twists her muscled legs around your middle so that your hands are free, nothing but the wrap of legs and bodies keeping her in the air. Horatio--he was supposed to be the one to survive, to speak "good night sweet prince" over your burnt-out artist’s candle. But you were the one left to say goodbye. The shudder throws you off balance. Angela has to clutch your shoulder to keep from falling headlong. She scrambles out of your arms, comes down hard on one of her knees, breathing raggedly. Wisps of fine hair fall out of her tight bun, her glare is venom. The choreographer’s mouth falls open, he puts a protective arm around her. Force a laugh. Launch yourself up into an ailes de pigeon, wishing the world would end at the height of the leap, beating your legs like wings. ~fin~ by llamajoy
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