Tuesday, September 22, 2009


I asked the ballet instructor if the dancers would like a fan. Since it’s so hot, I told her. She told me not to worry about it, it didn’t affect her anyway. I laughed at her honesty; its meanness struck a chord. How hot could tiny dancers get anyway, I thought.

Painted teenagers dancing. Painted eyes, painted lips, painted cheeks. Tiny, taut muscles, squeezed into blue costumes. Am I the ogre? I wanted to believe I wasn’t so I stayed hidden in the shadow. Tiny bodies with wicked curves here and there. The music swam through air. I looked away.

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