Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
I dismiss my thoughts and turn back to the stage, enjoying the sound of the auditorium filling up again. The ruffle of programs, the chatter of hushed voices.
It’s all so comforting.
Movement on my left catches my attention. The same person who was talking to people on the other side of me is talking to the people a few seats up. I can’t make out their conversation, but it seems animated. I face forward, so I don’t look like I’m eavesdropping. And then that couple stands, just as the bell is about to sound, and they leave their seats.
How strange.
I look over my shoulder and see people filing back to their seats. People making polite excuse-me faces when they try to squeeze past each other. The auditorium is looking pretty full. I glance up to the boxes. There’s the woman from the restrooms.
I smooth down my black pencil skirt that I save for important meetings and funerals. Her outfit probably costs the same as my monthly salary. Maybe my entire yearly wage.
The lights flash, indicating that the second half is about to begin, and my heart pounds. I snap my head to either side of me, and my entire row is completely empty. The five rows in front are full. I glance behind me… everywhere is full. But not my row.
Where is everyone? Does this mean that the second half is going to be interrupted as people file in late? It’s so rude!
The lights dim, and I see a man stride toward me. One person! There should be at least thirty people in this row. I can’t see his face as he nears, but I can’t stop staring at him as he gets closer.
As he comes into focus, my stomach flips as I realize I recognize him. That sharp jaw and full lips. The shiny thick hair that looks like it was passed down from JFK himself.
I’ve seen him before. I never go anywhere, so I must have seen him in Star Falls.
But he’s not local.
He must be a celebrity. A movie star. Or maybe I’ve seen him on Dancing with the Stars?
For a second, I wonder if he’s here to tell me I’ve wandered off track and to send me home.
“Good evening,” he says, returning my stare. His voice is low and deep and it sends vibrations across my skin.
He sits next to me. In the seat a woman was in before the intermission.
What is happening? Before I have the chance to process what’s going on, the curtains go up. I give him a final glance. He meets my gaze and gives me a small smile that flips my stomach inside out, and I turn back to the stage.
Just as Prince Charming comes to Cinderella’s house, my attention is pulled from the stage as I realize that no one has filled the empty seats in my row. The guy next to me and I are the only two people in our entire row.
Prokofiev’s beautiful music surges and my attention is again pulled back to the stage. It’s not until the curtain comes down for a final time that I’m conscious again that there are only two people in my row.
And I’m one of them.
“A wonderful production,” the man says to me as the dancers take their bows. His gaze is fixed intently on me, and I feel so hot under his stare that all I can do is nod. When Meghan comes onto the stage, I jump to my feet and applaud, as does most of the audience around me, including my next-door neighbor.
Meghan’s presented with a huge bouquet of red roses and acts like it’s a total surprise and she wasn’t expecting it at all. But even after all the performances she’s given, it still must be a thrill to receive a standing ovation—to have everyone in the audience thank you for sharing your talent. She can’t possibly get tired of the love she must feel from the audience.
“She’s wonderful,” I say, almost to myself.
The man next to me must hear me, because he replies, “She certainly is. She earned her position as the prima ballerina, despite her few critics.”
Meghan wasn’t always the darling of the New York Ballet scene. Some critics unfairly called her a pastiche of all the great dancers that came before her. She was accused of copying the elegant lines of Sylvie Guillem. And Natalia Osipova’s jumps. I struggle to see why any dancer wouldn’t try to copy the masters of their craft. Isn’t it the aim of all dancers to be the best at everything they do?
I nod, and the familiar stranger holds my gaze. I turn back to the stage, trying to figure out who the man is next to me. I’ve definitely seen him before, but it can’t be from Star Falls. It would be impossible for a guy in Star Falls, especially one as handsome as the one next to me, to be a ballet lover and for me not to know about him.