Ballet Ballet
I am tall, and agile, with curled, dark brown hair that sways to the nip of my back; I am a dancer. I always have a smile on my face, twirling, dipping, and leaping through the air. My partner is very professional, agile, and beautiful as well. We dance for ages it seems, just performing for an empty auditorium. The velvet, burgundy red, curtain behind us, sleepily slumping on the stage ground. Stretching far above our heads, thirty maybe forty feet above us it clung to the wires, chains, loops, and pulleys.
Against the curtain, my dress is illuminated. A pale buttermilk, floor length, sleeveless, gown with lily petal patterns intricately embroidered almost invisibly around the skirt hem. Accompanied by my gentleman’s classic tuxedo, we silence all fashion magazines in awe and zealousness. The stage is lit by only the main spotlight, glaring at center stage, heating the floorboards beneath my slippers and evaporating the sweat beads accumulating around my temples, then breaking free to sizzle on the ground with every twist, turn, or dip.
The routine is vigorous, fast paced, and unique. My partner leads me on well rehearsed feet, through moves I’ve never seen, but so well know how to perform. His hand holding mine, I spin out, then back in, he holds the right of my hip and I gracefully stretched my arms back, lifting my heart to the moon and dipping deeper into the river of eloquence of love and dance. Rising again, I move my feet in a pattern so delicate, he can only harmonize the movements. He places his hands at my waist as I leap through the spotlight, my gown flowing through, the lilies shimmering if only for a moment, the perspiration parching; my soul singing a duet of utter joy and glee with my heart, pounding every note, keeping the rhythm alive in my chest.
Without missing a step, or fading my expression, I sweep through my finale with a pirouette, then gliding into a restful position with my left leg outstretched behind me, my right leg folded gently beneath my sternum and my bodice bent forward, right and left hands supporting my chin as I look up towards my partner. He stands triumphant, ending our love story.
“Well done, madam.” He gives his hand to mine, aiding me to stand upright again.
“Merci, have a good evening.” I curtsy, as he bows and then exits stage left. I exit stage right, and enter into my dressing room. As I gather my personal items, I hear a voice outside my window. I open the curtains and see the sun rising over silver fogged mountains, golden light gleaming onto my face.
Against the curtain, my dress is illuminated. A pale buttermilk, floor length, sleeveless, gown with lily petal patterns intricately embroidered almost invisibly around the skirt hem. Accompanied by my gentleman’s classic tuxedo, we silence all fashion magazines in awe and zealousness. The stage is lit by only the main spotlight, glaring at center stage, heating the floorboards beneath my slippers and evaporating the sweat beads accumulating around my temples, then breaking free to sizzle on the ground with every twist, turn, or dip.
The routine is vigorous, fast paced, and unique. My partner leads me on well rehearsed feet, through moves I’ve never seen, but so well know how to perform. His hand holding mine, I spin out, then back in, he holds the right of my hip and I gracefully stretched my arms back, lifting my heart to the moon and dipping deeper into the river of eloquence of love and dance. Rising again, I move my feet in a pattern so delicate, he can only harmonize the movements. He places his hands at my waist as I leap through the spotlight, my gown flowing through, the lilies shimmering if only for a moment, the perspiration parching; my soul singing a duet of utter joy and glee with my heart, pounding every note, keeping the rhythm alive in my chest.
Without missing a step, or fading my expression, I sweep through my finale with a pirouette, then gliding into a restful position with my left leg outstretched behind me, my right leg folded gently beneath my sternum and my bodice bent forward, right and left hands supporting my chin as I look up towards my partner. He stands triumphant, ending our love story.
“Well done, madam.” He gives his hand to mine, aiding me to stand upright again.
“Merci, have a good evening.” I curtsy, as he bows and then exits stage left. I exit stage right, and enter into my dressing room. As I gather my personal items, I hear a voice outside my window. I open the curtains and see the sun rising over silver fogged mountains, golden light gleaming onto my face.
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