Story 8, pt 1 | Sort Of
On opening night, with a career-making critic in the audience, a ballerina explores her chemistry with her partner. Does their intimacy transcend the stage?
Ingrid Michaelson’s “Sort Of” offers exactly what I look for as the base of a story: specific, haunting lyrics that openly tease at something more. I’ve always wished artists would walk us through a song’s backstory, explain the implication of every word choice and how the melodies support. Since they so rarely do that, I write these shorts instead.
Listen to “Sort Of” here. This feels like a good one to play first, then read. The opening notes are what instantly put me in the ballet world - they immediately conjured quick, delicate en pointe steps.
I’ve split Sort Of into two parts. You’ll get part two next week!
Enjoy!!
Sort Of, pt 1
I’m amazing
When you’re beside me
I am so much more
- “Run” by Matt Nathanson + Sugarland
Our first touch is light, meant to appear unintentional. More is hardly needed to communicate our motivations, what with this tension. The music builds, and we begin our dance.
By the end, his warm, strong hands will have traveled every curve of my body. Taking my hand, he leads me several steps before twisting me about, ever aware of the other’s gaze. I arch back; he positions my hips just so and lifts me to him. We hold the position, and I am overcome by the intimacy of the movement, one of his hands at the small of my back, the other gripping my thigh. His breath on my neck, our rhythms are one. The heat between us becomes literal, as I feel his sweat as our chests press together. His fingers touch my lips — that it is unrehearsed is not lost on me — before he closes his mouth over mine to kiss me.
We must be careful not to become lost in the movement, though certainly our audience would not mind. Romeo and Juliet is a love story, after all.
—
When I am not being drowned in the tumult of it, I think I might live in applause, forever. But as it crashes down on us in the moment, the thunderous power of it, wave after wave, requires a greater strength than I simply to stand before it. Fresh modesty colors my cheeks.
The show is over, and we have triumphed. He and I hold the center of the stage, amid the other principals and corps, a unit. He gives my hand a knowing squeeze. We hold our poses of victors, smiling and strong, beaming and basking, until the curtain has but brushed the hardwoods. The organization of choreography is immediately lost as we scatter together in unrehearsed jubilation. I imagine a theatergoer with particularly acute hearing might catch our rush of elation through the red velvet wall between us and give a private smile as they exit, still caught in the reverie of the dance.
Tonight, a critic of the highest esteem sat in our audience, and tonight, we delighted in our dance. We as dancers are so skilled in our movements, so graceful – the unpracticed movement as an expression of intense feeling is beautiful to watch. I am barely aware of what my own body is doing, as I hug and kiss every body near me. A collective freak-out, one might say. There is no poetry here – and that is beautiful.
This critic’s review can set any number of events into motion. The success of the production certainly hangs in the balance, that is a given. The right turn of phrase could attract the attendance of scouts; we know they will all read this piece. We dare not even breathe the possibilities of what could be.
There is but a moment to celebrate here. The company’s opening night gala follows in just moments, at which we are again the entertainment and are expected immediately. That the thrill of brushing a ballerina’s shoulder would encourage a more rapturous review or open the wallet of a donor.
I fly from the stage through the eaves, down to the dressing rooms. The girls swarm into the room. Taffeta and zippers, nylon and glitter are shed. There is no time to tone down makeup or come down from a taut bun. The girls dive into evening gowns, jewelry and shoes, originally so carefully packed. This is a more radical quick-change, as we move not from costume to costume, but from character to self. An abrupt transformation that had me needing a moment to catch my breath.
The room empties as I sit before a vanity, promising I am right behind them. I breathe deep and exhale. Tonight is of monumental importance, but the work was done long before the curtain rose. Dancing as principal carries a certain responsibility, and I take comfort that our fates were sealed in the years of practice that led to this performance. I ease my long hair from its ballerina’s signature and brush out the waves over one shoulder until they look designed.
I slip into my silk gown, flame red as though I could carry the spotlight with me. L’Oiseau de Feu, no? All per the company’s PR team, of course. My poor feet hate the stilettos, unsure which shoes are more painful. A couple pills to reprieve. A spot of lipstick to finish – calling me back to his touch of my lips tonight. Most unusual. For a second, my mind wanders… A glance to the time, I know I’m late.
I leap out the door and stop short, my dancer’s sixth sense making me aware of another presence and keeping me just from colliding into him. We both stop, startled by my outburst of an entrance, and then relax at the sight of the other. I cannot help but notice he is the picture of dashing. After a composed peck of hello, he gallantly offers me his arm, and we set off to the gala.
—
He is my own personal comet, rare and bright, seemingly come about this universe just for me. This sort of harmonization requires outside graces.
We met in the basest of ways: sharing spots in the corps and remaining anonymous, even to each other. Though I’m perhaps a little quieter, we were both social, and we saw each other countless times, but it simply never occurred to us to speak. I suppose I discounted him and didn’t so much as ignore him as not even bother. He did the same. We laugh about it now. When I think of how many classes we shared without even speaking, I wonder if it was simple coincidence or more so fate intervening and preparing each of us for that moment.
It came down to a random Wednesday afternoon rehearsal. A guest choreographer was casting a small piece for a showcase and, ahead of more formal auditions, was teaching a week of classes. It was her first day, and she was leading us through a long, complicated pass – an evident test of our partnering skills. Her manner was not to use the established pairings, but to pluck from the crowd at will. We weren’t even first, watching these new duos run the steps, until we were suddenly in front of each other. I didn’t have the time to even say hello, but by the time he put me down on the other side of the floor, you would have thought we had known each other all our lives.
The music began. I gave him the most imperceptible nod as if giving permission, and we were off, my hand in his. I still don’t know how to describe it, the feeling of dancing with him that first time. He was present with me, casting aside everything else, but not crowding me. Just with me. All along the way, our eyes would meet, and I almost felt like we were communicating. With him, I felt like I knew the steps, though they had been just arranged. From pirouette to lift, our bodies met each other as it was intended. His strength, his musicality, his height all matched mine. I can still picture the movements in my head. We do the pass again here and there, a fond warm-up.
I knew from dancing with other partners that this was an exception, but I had no idea that we had broadcast the connection so transparently to our audience. We moved into the pass’ final position, standing before each other, my hands on his chest, his at my waist. And we just stayed there a moment, staring right at each other, trying to process what had just occurred between us.
We broke apart, slowly, as though emerging from a trance. The class was hushed, no other couple cued up to repeat our steps. Our choreographer appeared frozen, moved to stillness, one arm just out, askance as if she forgot its intention, her unblinking eyes fixed on us.
“Oh.” The syllable of surprise just escaped her lips.
We waited a beat, then headed to the edge of the room to blend back in with the corps.
“No, no, no, no, no,” the choreographer insisted, her arms regaining function and now beckoning at us wildly to merge once more. “Do that again.”
Before he started across the studio to wind up for another pass, he leaned to me and whispered “well, hello,” in my ear, holding his face close to mine just long enough for me to stammer out an uncertain “hi.” My girlfriends from class asked me for weeks what he said, but I never told them.
We were immediately cast as principals in the piece, never receding to the corps again.
Now, that guest choreographer likes to take credit for the vision of pairing us. Someone might have seen it, but it was just stacks of random – or fated? – circumstances. A perfectly timed comet crossing the sky of an eclipse.
He and I were both building to the crescendo of our careers in rhythm, a few years shy of our peak strength and ability. He towered an additional six inches over me, so even when I was en pointe, his shoulders framed mine to the audience perfectly. His skin tone and hair color were a few shades darker than mine, so to the lights of the stage, I was his fair and feminine match. In rehearsals, we naturally developed an unspoken shorthand as we adapted to the other - a gentle nudge or an indicative head tilt, corrections offered in a giving manner. Our work ethic was similar; in the studio, we were devoted to the dance, though laughter cut in often enough to offer a levity without distracting.
This all made our dancing so easy. The most intricate of passes or the boldest lifts that required endless study and practice with other partners were mastered quickly between us, giving our choreographers the freedom to truly test their art.
Add to that, the elusive x-factor of chemistry, just pouring from our bodies. Separated, together, in a lift, en pointe, it didn’t matter. There was a smoldering heat between us, hotter and lusher than any Amazonian jungle. At least that’s what a local blogger wrote of an early performance, the printed-out review making the rounds in rehearsal the next day and causing majestic tsunamis of eyerolls. I thought of it more as an unparalleled mutual awareness. I knew better than anyone precisely where he was and what he would do next. He knew this of me as well, and more often than not, we were in perfect step, effortlessly.
I trust him implicitly. I literally depend on his strength; it is his role to catch me when I fall. If he spins me, throws me, lifts me, he is always there to set me right on my feet again. I spend the majority of my days wrapped around him, revolving around him.
That first dance was almost a year and a half ago.
—
We walk into the gala arm-in-arm, and there it is again, the overwhelm of applause. Our theater’s lobby, where we so often splay out across the floor in the most casual of fashions to stretch or rest between rehearsals, has been transformed to a grand hall, opening out to gardens where sweeps of string lights cast a faux ceiling of stars. The tuxedos and gowns, the waiters in their white jackets scooting about trays of sparkling champagne, the periodic pop of a camera flash – it all points to us for a moment.
Fortunately, the company’s executive director sees his moment to speak and grabs a microphone to welcome the crowd. We stand by his side as he gushes over the performance – and the need to support the arts.
For hours, we do the company’s work, crushed by a steady flow of donors, ballet fans, press, photo opportunities. Friends swing through the collection always around us, bringing champagne and treats to sustain us.
A few times, the pull of conversation threatens to take me from him, for whatever request or the other. Each time, he finds an excuse, takes my hand and keeps me close. When one particularly insistent older man wishes to take a picture by the fountain with me, literally tugging me from the group, he steps in again and with the flourish of a dramatic twirl, I am back in his arms.
He looks up right up the man and, with kindness and mirth lighting his eyes, says, “You see, tonight, we move as one.”
The crowd loves it.
Eventually, they dissipate, alcohol fogging the draw, right on cue. A photographer asks us to walk the gardens with the hopes of a more artistic capture. We do him one better with a modest lift, into a spin – the drama of the red silk masks how encumbered we are by our formal footwear.
And then we are alone with the stars and the greenery. To my suggestion of returning to the party to find our friends, his response: “Oh, I’m not done with you yet!”
He has me by the crook of the arm and so I am his. I am grateful when he offers a bench to sit; our minds are bright with excitement, but our bodies betray us after a performance.
Curiously, we speak not of ballet, nor of steps, reviews, music. He tells me of a chance encounter with one of my favorite actors, wherein he left with an open invitation to visit in Los Angeles. How had I not heard this before? It prompts a more in-depth discussion on the desire to quench our lust for travel with a trip of some sort in the next year. Patagonia? Berlin? Morocco.
We seemingly float to a bar for a beverage, doing our thing where we cannot see the world for each other. We slip into French for a moment. He tells me how faith gives the courage to fear less. That by focusing on God, the trivialities of life are quickly put into perspective, allowing truth to shine through.
I can’t explain it all, we never speak like this, but tonight that connection between us burns in a bright new form. I finish explaining my morning mantras, the phrases that give me strength, if only I had the head to remember to employ them during the day.
We catch a moment to breathe amid the pull of our talk, and we realize we are back in the center of the hall, the crowd thin. Press and director gone, our duties are complete. The hour shocks me, so I beg leave, promising vigilance tomorrow as we await the posting of the review. He gives me a final twirl and kiss on the cheek.
I scurry down to the dressing room to gather my things before the theater is locked for the night. I find a few of my friends from the company doing the same, and as we pack, we recount the wins of the night. The end of act two, a rare night of champagne deservedly interrupting our rigor and discipline, the waiter who almost fell in the fountain – and the ballerino whose more nimble feet saved him.
The girls eye each other a moment and then ask me what of my conversation with my favorite partner tonight? They don’t believe my confusion to their reference. Their observation of the same scene paints a different picture. How he couldn’t keep his hands off me all night, the way he looked at me, our close conservation hidden in the garden, how we ignored everyone the latter half of the night – and how no one minded as they felt they were intruding on a precious moment.
I wish I could laugh them off as ridiculous, but something they say catches in my chest, and I hope they are right. Then, by provenance, a text to my phone. I am never one to hide a blush well, so the girls catch on immediately, and I give up the phone from my hand so they might read the message.
Good night dangerous red dress
From him, of course.
They erupt in squeals and fly about me all atwitter as we finally leave the theater for the night. Amid their theories and prophecies, I can only wonder what is happening and what might have changed?
Home in bed at long last, questions and naïve thrill and make-believe scenarios become seductive characters, populating my mind with drunk hope. Or hope drunk. My mind runs and runs, pulling so for the new day that it cannot catch sleep.
My alarm wakes me with music, anything but classical. Today, joyous pop has my body moving before I even open my eyes. The soft light of morning cuts through the blinds as I lie in bed and take stock. Morning rehearsals had been pushed in the realistic acknowledgement of a slow start following the gala. I remember the champagne first. I so rarely partake; it accounts for the extra layer of haze and a bit of the spins.
Oh! The review. That wouldn’t be live yet – I was barely live yet. I push deeper in the folds of fluff that is my bed and ignore the world for a bit more.
A favorite guilty pleasure of a song finally rouses me, my body’s reflexive dance drowning in my half-consciousness. A couple songs and I’m up, spinning loose about the room in a foreign, delicious freedom.
My muscles remember something I forgot, and his presence sneaks up behind me. I spook myself and laugh when I find the room empty. The memories of my night with him flood back. The finger on the lips, the sight of him in a tuxedo, getting lost in a garden of stars, my girlfriends’ suspicions rousing my own, his text, my own hopes for today. Pish posh. This story smacks of champagne and the compressed drama of men and women too close for too long.
At least, that’s what I tell myself for the moment, practicing the line with hopes it will keep.
Lost in my thoughts, I pay no attention to the steps, until something catches my eye. I am so rarely home at this hour of the morning, the light is brighter and reveals a bit more, something about the way it falls onto the hardwoods of my bedroom, just enough space to be a dance floor. In this most casual dance now, my feet kick up previously unnoticed wisps of dust that must be twirled by my feet as I rehearse my steps at night, as I am wont to do, rather than cleaning which is so clearly needed. Slippers are infinitely more comfortable than pointe shoes, but the precision of the movement is lost.
I first see the dust, then something more. From this new illuminated perspective, I see the truth behind my lonely evening waltzes for the first time. I am not a diligent ballerina polishing steps each night. I am lovesick, spending the little time apart from him rapt in memory of being held in his arms. The finale's sequence, which I repeat ceaselessly, isn’t a crescendo that showcases my talent; it is our most intimate and powerful moment.
Oh no.
I plop to a seat on my bed, spins renewed, this time not from champagne but from the nervous lurches of my heart in my chest. My mind catches up to my heart with such turbulence, I have every sensation of vertigo. I crawl to the center of my bed, my hands cover my face as I try to close down the world and buy some time to sort this out.
Never mind the sheer baseness of the cliché, there are countless arguments for why me being in love with him is a fatal mistake. Could our relationship be more loaded? I try to shake it off as egotistical, but I don’t really think I’m wrong to think that the company currently hinges on our lucrative partnership. We can’t risk the fluctuations of personal drama subverting our composed performance of the stage in any way.
And there is the minor complication that he is my best friend.
How am I to hide this? I wasn’t aware of it just yesterday, and now I am bowled over to the point of illness. Questions flood in. I can’t begin to suss out how long this has been percolating in me. Have others noticed, like my friends last night? Has he noticed? Could he possibly feel anything for me? The thought of his ignorance makes me physically react. Surely if we are so in sync, he must know on some level. Which is even more devastating a thought. I do not even dare to think about the possibility on acting on any of this.
Yet, rehearsal calls. On some level, I am an actress, so I summon a character to carry myself forward. Someone quite unlike myself, the woman who would wear that flame red dress – without coaching. The woman who can stand from the bed and prepare for the day without debilitation. The woman who knows just what to do in circumstances such as these. Perhaps if I summon her strongly enough, she’ll tell me her secrets.
She’s enough to get me out the door, but I lose the character on the drive to the theater, my idle thoughts getting away from me. I think about the little ways he had rubbed off on me, vestiges I will carry long after he is gone. His ways have blended to my own. Morning yoga to ease an aching body. The tendency to favor the word electric. A new appreciation for the out of doors. A new bit of confidence from the way he looks at me, holding a higher opinion of me than I do of myself.
Thank you so much for reading! We’re going to hold off on ratings until next week, once you’ve read the entire piece.
In the meantime, what do you think/hope is going to happen?!
Next Week’s Plot Twist…
The final half of Sort Of is waiting for you! Our ballerina has realized her feelings for her partner, and the performance’s review is about to drop… it’s going to be good!
Last week’s story:
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