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“It’s too early in rehearsals to do this.”
Joel inhaled the marked bitter scent of the steaming coffee in his insulated tumbler and tried to let it sift through any number of replies he might offer. It wasn’t unusual for them to start a season snipping at one another.
There had been the spring production of Picasso Brought to Life where he and Len fought like estranged siblings suddenly forced to share a room. Everything the other did was wrong and an insult to the other’s dignity and education, from colors of backdrops to choreography. How they made it to the final curtain of the final show, without strangling one another, baffled him.
It felt different this time. Vehemence behind the blustering. Frenzy under the protestations. And Joel couldn’t claim the higher ground.
So, he tried to weigh his answer, but it still came out with defense. All Len had to do was worry about the ballet. He didn’t have to deal with Moves Athletic hounding his emails for another session, off-site, this time. Or the theater he hoped to run the production in demanding another eight thousand, in addition to the nine he already paid, to be the only ballet performing on their stage this season.
“It’s too late to say that now, when they’re downstairs.”
“I said it earlier.”
Joel took a long draught of his coffee. “You did.”
“And you ignored me then.”
“I’m not ignoring you now. We’re not in the black and you have expensive tastes. I’m going to do what needs to be done. And we can keep having this conversation because you’re a stubborn prick; my answer isn’t changing.”
“Dick”
“You’ve called me worse.” He set the Thermos down. “Come on. Take the stick out of your ass and let’s go be professionals.”
“Will you give it back to me later?” he sneered. “You know how I like to be abused.”
By the time he and Len arrived on the ground floor, instantly swarmed by fluttering (mostly) women and men eager to be acknowledged for their finer tastes, he was Mr. Dvorak, director of Ballet La Faire. Magnanimous and flattering. Witty and composed, as if the dry humor was a biproduct of his natural outlook on society. Ladies linked his arm in theirs. Men shook his hand with bravado. Certainly. he wasn’t ready to rip his top choreographer a new ass crack.
Why, yes, this ballet was a new challenge for the company. Yes, as a matter of fact, it was inspired by a painting. Yes, there is nothing remotely holiday-ish about the production. No, he loved Christmas. Yes, La Faire dancers were thrilled beyond belief to bring such a ballet back to life. No, he had never had the chance to dance this choreography during his active years.
Eventually, with a sweeping motion that might have done credit to a count before his party of guests on his private island, Joel waved his arm and beckoned everyone to follow.
Len could swallow his own tongue. He heard this chatter, saw the excitement. His anal-retentive ass could see how the interruption of his schedule was the right thing. The ballet needed the fanfare.
As the group filed into the studio and settled over the luxurious bleachers he had spent a nauseating amount on, Joel walked to the middle of the room. Len kept to the edge of his periphery but followed.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen to an Afternoon at La Faire! We’re glad you decided to come see what it takes to bring a production like Divertissement of Angels to life. Normally, I’d spend a little more time explaining the process but you’re going to experience it today. Our choreographer Len runs a tight ship.” He winked. “Technically, this is still his rehearsal.”
Polite chuckles of laughter rippled, and Len took the cue. He offered a brief explanation of the section La Faire dancers were set to practice and reminded the audience there would be plenty of time afterwards for explanations and questions.
Without waiting for the crowd’s response, he clapped. From behind the piano, Matt adjusted his posture and the company merged into a straight line.
Joel moved to a chair in the far corner and sat down. It was the faces in the audience he wanted to see. Their anticipation, mild confusion, and delight.
Eventually, his focus drifted to the dancing bodies. The pulled muscle in Clark’s back didn’t seem to be affecting his range of motion today. Kristy had worked hard to take the corrections Len gave about her hip alignment and the effort was paying off. Dillon was not favoring his knee; the physical therapy bills had been worth it. Nan was still biting her lip anytime Len looked at her, but her shapes and lines were immaculate, nonetheless.
However, though she was near textbook perfect, Joel’s gaze rested on Annalisa for a long time. Shredded images of their walk after dinner scattered through his mind’s eye. He had held her close, and he could imagine holding her close now.
Except he’d be dancing with her. Between counterbalance and release, he’d control her power only to let her burst from his grasp. Lifting her over his head, he’d take the ground away from her feet, and then stand behind her, ready to disappear as she enchanted an audience with numbers of turns thought impossible.
Get a grip. Don’t be a sick fuck. She’s your employee. She was your student! There’s so much red tape around her, you’d get strangled. Mister Business, huh? Hypocrite. The well-being of the company is your only concern, huh? But you can’t take your eyes away from how the color black makes her look small and dangerous. Looking counts. Thinking about her, even if it’s only at work, counts. Get a grip.
Except it hadn’t been only at work. It hadn’t been at night, either. He wasn’t seeing her silhouette waltz past his eyes before he fell asleep. There was no time spent in a dark room, alone with thoughts of her. In a weird way, that would have been more excusable to him. Thinking with his libido.
No, it was worse. He thought about her in the morning, in the quiet when the sun was bright and pale. The way her smile brought one dimple on her right cheek. Coffee beans grinding, he could hear her laugh, find an ease he could not name in the memory of talking to her. Conversation between them was easy. Like fingers lacing, it fit. Putting on his shoes, he wondered if she was eating anything that resembled a worthwhile breakfast.
And who did she see when company life did not claim her time? It seemed like she and Kristy got along but did they get along well enough to binge watch trash television together? Had there been lunch dates? He steered clear of when rehearsals ended for fear he might invite her to walk to the modest halal grocery store that made small batch tahini strong enough to wake the cedars of Lebanon.
And Joel wasn’t asinine enough to believe there might not already be a man to invite her to lunch. A man within five years of her age, not eighteen.
She must have sensed his stare. He was probably drilling holes through her body. Coming out of a leaping sequence with explosive power, she locked eyes with him.
It was an instant. The music waits for no one. In a sheer moment, she stepped into a traveling turning sequence that spun her across the wide space.
But it was enough. He felt it in his chest. Sirens had eyes like that, and he was trapped by her stare.
Damn.
***
APPLAUSE RUSHED AT the end of the showcase. In lines of five, dancers took modest bows, allowing Len to come front and enjoy the adulation he deserved. When the praise faded, Joel stood and came alongside.
“On behalf of myself, Lennard, and the dancers of La Faire, thank you for coming and sharing this portion of the journey, from studio to stage, with us! If there are any questions, we’re only too happy to answer.”
Half a dozen hands went up. The questions were mostly for Len. How could he possibly remember all the moves? How did he add his own flair to the choreography? One woman wanted to know how the dancers retained the information; it all seemed overwhelming. One man wanted to know what dancers thought when people compared ballet to football, dismissing it as the sport it clearly was to anyone with a brain to see. Another man wanted to know if Len ever missed being part of the performance and on the heels of his answer, a woman asked the same of Joel.
“Do you miss it?”
“Yes. For a professional, dance is more than a job. It’s a person’s whole life and even though me and Len are as close to it as can be, unless you’re actually dancing, it’s never the same.”
“Can you still dance?” she asked quickly.
“I’m not as old as I look.”
The woman giggled, elbowed by her companion, both of an age where hair goes from gray to fawny purple.
“I think you look wonderful. I meant do you still remember steps from ballets like this?”
“Oh!” He offered his most gracious smile. “Yes, I remember.”
Other hands had gone up, but she spoke immediately after his reply. “What was your favorite? Could you dance some of it for us?”
“Ooo’s” and other verbal exclamations of excitement and pleasure bubbled up. Following was more clapping and a few whistles. Behind him, his dancers seemed to think this was also a marvelous idea and joined in the urging. Although Len looked like he had smelled spoiled milk, he bowed slightly and stepped back.
“Now, if I pull a muscle, Madame, are you going to massage it for me?” Joel asked with enough mischief to make her giggle uptick an octave.
“You must tell us!” she demanded. “What’s your favorite ballet before you dance any of it for us.”
Joel stooped to loosen his shoes and slip them off. “Agon. It’s a Balanchine piece. He described the ballet as being a machine that thinks. The word agon is Greek for contest and I think there is a connection in the struggle of a machine to support sentience.”
“What part of the story will you dance for us?”
“Well, like a lot of Balanchine’s works, Agon doesn’t tell a story. It’s an encounter with movement between dancers. I’ll do part of the pas de deux to show you.”
He was looking at the woman when he extended his hand behind himself. He was looking at the woman when he said her name, entirely unaware of who else he might have asked. In his whole company, her name was on his lips.
“Annalisa will dance this with me. She’s new to La Faire but I’ve worked with her in the past.”
“And she knows it, too?”
He felt her cool touch on his palm before she answered the matron. “I know it because he taught it to me and made me cry when I couldn’t hear the timing because Balanchine was a maniac.”
On autopilot, Joel heard himself explain that the way George Balanchine used music was unique. He heard himself tell Matt they would dance up to the first lift, which was only two minutes of movement.
An entire other dimension of him unfurled and all he knew was how refreshing her hand felt. How soft her palm was under his fingers. The choreography dictated they begin at arm’s length. Yet his mind had raced ahead to the brief moment in the pattern of steps when they would pause, his arms clasped around her waist, their bodies pressed together, and her one leg wrapped around him.
Vaguely, he heard a few of his employees whisper they were glad to see him dance. As if standing on another plane of existence, he saw a few thumbs-up, a few genuine smiles. The only thing that was real was the pressure of her hand holding his.
Unlike ballroom dancing, there is no lead-and-follow in ballet. Either the man follows the woman or their efforts for leaps and lifts are equal. Still, when both their arms extended to begin, he felt like she would match her movements to his. It felt like the piece had been in their repertoire together for years.
From behind the piano, Matt made light work of the dizzying scales of a score by Stravinsky. Touched into motion by the music, Joel moved with her. She was an extension of his body. He was her shadow.
First dancing side by side, at arm’s length, then close enough to touch. The sound of her breathing echoed in his chest. How she kept a tight hold of his hand felt like she pulled heartstrings.
And when he wrapped her to him, when her thigh was around his side, their stomachs and chest pressed together, he knew he gripped her harder than necessary. Against the strength in his hands, he resisted not clutching her ‘til she whispered his name.
Even so, chest to chest and face to face, those hazel eyes widened and though her mouth was already open to breathe easier, those rounded lips parted more.
They broke apart but the choreography kept them close. He felt her ribs reach and collapse. His hands were near her backside. The smell of hair spray, deodorant, and sweat flooded his senses and fractured his vision. When he lifted her over his head, she was weightless, and his pulse thundered in his ears.
He could have carried her from the room. He could have thrown her over his shoulder and left them all speechless, finding the nearest room with a door that locked. There he’d take her by the back of the neck and shove his fingers into her hair, until his body came down from cataclysm.
Instead, Matt played the last chords and he set her down. Using how his chest heaved as an excuse, he managed to thank the audience once more and pretend he needed privacy to catch his breath. Almost positive he managed a smile, he strode from the room, fled up the stairs, and locked his office door.
***
“JOEL!”
Len’s knock rattled the door frame.
“Save it!”
“Open the door!”
It would have been easy to volley back another denial, this time telling Len where he could shove his indignation, but they weren’t going to do this. With the entire company one floor below and a slow departing crowd of paying customers, he and Len weren’t going to have a fight through the door like angry teenage brothers.
Up from behind his desk Joel shot and wrenched the door open. Like thunder, Len strode in.
“What the fuck was that?!”
A smart-ass rhetorical question Joel wasn’t going to hang his head under, that’s what that was.
“Me humoring one of the deep pockets funding this company. Me using one of the most talented dancers in my troupe.”
Len scoffed. “Right. And that talented dancer just happened to be the one hired without any input from me. The one both Moves and that fat toad from the restaurant decided was the face they wanted. The one you took to dinner, and” he inhaled, “the one I’ve reprimanded to keep in line. As if she has any idea where that line is, because you crossed every one!”
“Len!”
“I’d need a reprimand if favors were raining down on me like that! My head would be as big as her ass.”
Under the slam of his fist, the thick, wooden table jostled. ‘Enough!”
The command touched his cousin like a hot iron, and he jumped towards the desk, gripping its edges.
“Watch yourself, Joel Dvorak. Remember who’s stood by you all this time. It isn’t her. But you can’t seem to remember that when she’s in the room. I see the way you look at her.”
Indignation, unjustified and indefensible, fumed in Joel’s chest. There was not a single word Len had said that wasn’t true. Yet in the same breath, he wanted to beat his chest and say his cousin was the one out of line.
“You’re right,” he challenged. “I look at her. So what? You want to talk about professionalism? You want to accuse me of going too far? You can’t! Nothing that has happened concerning Annalisa has been in breach of company contract.”
Enraged, Len’s skin practically fumed. “Yet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Joel growled.
He drummed his knuckles on the table and leaned forward. “I see the way she looks at you, too. How long can you stand it, Mister Mighty Upright? She does something to you. How long before it’s her, not me, in this office with the door locked?”
He hit him.
His vision blurred with maroon heat and Joel punched his cousin in the jaw—knocked him on his ass. In all the years, all the fights, all the times he swore Len thought he was Divinely right about everything, times he swore he’d be better off running the company on his own, never...he’d never acted on that anger.
Until now. Until Annalisa.
“Len...I’m...”
He moved to help him, but his hand was struck aside. “I’ll be taking the rest of the week off. Personal reasons.”
And with that, the side of his face swelling grotesquely, Len stood and walked out.