The Dancer

Canvas blocks softened by delicate satin make rhythmic drumming notes in the hallow gallery through the open door to the left. A girl I don’t remember, maybe she’s new, is standing in shame and exhaustion as the master scolds her on technique and timing. We have a job to impress, to bring in money, for the opera and for our families, if you still have anyone left to feed. If you dance well, one of the wealthy men in the audience might like you. If you perform well after the show, they might come back to see you.

Half listening, I turn my back on the girl so I can’t see the way she looks in response to the subjugation. I watch my two friends faces as they watch her, they look tired. I take this time to stretch on the ropes, my turn is soon, I can pretend to be above the others for only so much longer. I am only a better dancer then them until I stand before the composer, plié, relevé. I can hear the new girl take her leave to the room on the right, the face before me tightens as she takes her turn in the ring.

The composer breathes and lifts the violin to his chin as he begins the same short melody he has played for the other 20 girls before. I can feel the ribbon against the heel of my left foot; it will be my downfall. I should have put more work in shaving down the shoes last night. As long as the blood doesn’t stain the bright pink satin, I will be fine, blisters make the dancer strong. Somehow 2 girls have gone through the door to the right, I breath a sharp breath and take my place center room, third position. I raise my arms, one in a semi-circle in front of my chest and the other arm stretched, strong, but still light. My middle fingers, tight, centering my body, while my head raises and my eyes rest on a little spot on the wall that I will watch for the next 3 minutes. The composer breathes and lifts the violin to his chin.