u/HellaciouslyVapid

Authors note: This is the first time I have posted one of my complete short stories. I hope you all enjoy.

She Danced

He was alone in the absolute darkness. A quiet murmur of the masses around him assaulted his ears, yet he did not listen to them. They were easily suffocated by his desires. He simply waited. He said nothing; at that very moment, every fiber of his being hitched on a hope for the glorious beginning. With anticipation, his hand gripped the arm of the chair, his knuckles white. On his left hand there was a ghostly pale tan line of the ring that had once symbolized an eternal promise but now marked only a love squandered. He had a new love. A love he waited for this very moment, and he knew deep within himself it was about to begin. He felt the air buzz with fervor for seconds before a loud click sounded from the back of the auditorium. A beam of light split the darkness, then cut a swath down the red curtain to rest on center stage. He looked on, trembling with anticipation. He lusted for the curtain to lift. For it all to begin.

Strings split the silence and began to triumphantly swell, with brass and percussion boiling into a feverish roar. The curtain fluttered as if it was struck by the weight of the music and a smile crept across his face as he slowly sank into his chair, overcome. The curtain lifted, revealing the ensemble, the lights glistening off the brass instruments and highly polished cellos. The band was lowered into the orchestral pit until they were out of sight. She danced. And he was breathless. For a moment, just a moment, he thought that she was looking at him, no, she was looking at him. Her eyes wide as she took him in. A lowly spectator had caught the gaze of the ballerina. He wanted her to be his forever.

She landed like a feather, with absolute grace and control. The orchestra played its final note as she landed. The auditorium was silent as though in disbelief. He stood up in the silence before anyone else. She met his eyes. He smiled and began to clap. Not vehemently, but with precision. The rest of the audience joined in uproariously, drowning out his quiescence. Rising to their feet also, obscuring her view of him. He disappeared into the crowd. He imagined her searching for him, running off the stage, abandoning her troupe to seek him out in the mob of onlookers. Despite his desire for her he absconded into the night air that drenched the bustling street. The curtain dropped, and she retired into the dressing room, thinking only of her performance.

Grief ravaged her mind as she lamented any unperceived error in her performance as she walked back to her changing room. Slowly peeling off her leggings she spiraled hopelessly. Looking in the mirror, she cried. She devoted her life to the ballet but deep within she knew that she would never become what she desired most, being the lead. She had to devote everything to her dance. It took everything from her, and it always had. Water stained her cheeks and washed away the mascara, foundation, and blush, leaving only streaking streams behind each tear. Eventually she pulled herself together. Her hand hovered over the light switch near the door of her dressing room, the door squeaked ajar, and her index finger gently flipped the switch before she left the auditorium. Just like that, she was alone in absolute darkness.

The walk through the crowded street was loud, but eventually she rounded the final block and approached the entranceway of her apartment. She dragged her hand along the brick outside of her apartment and she imagined what sort of life she would have if she had finally got all that she wanted in life. Her hand turned the handle, pulled open the door, and slipped inside. Across the street cloaked in the dark, there he stood. Hands in his pockets. His breathing grew low and heavy with desire. He was happy once again. For the first time in a long time, he was not alone. Best of all, he loved the way she danced.

The ballerina tossed and turned in her bed through the night. She woke in a pool of sweat and rubbed her face, resigning herself to staring at the ceiling before she turned on her side. She looked out as if the curtains flapped in the breeze, fabric whipping in the wind. She stood to walk over to the window to shut out the night air. She did not remember leaving it open, but she must have in her exhaustion. She slid the window down and locked it. Just outside the window, He waited hours for her to return to sleep. Then when he was sure she slumbered once again, he peered in and watched her until the sunlight threatened to expose his new nocturnal ritual.

He walked down the street his apartment was on. He was running his hand along the stucco that clung to the face of the building, letting the rough edges score on his fingertips. Looking down at them his heart sank as he began thinking about what he could do to see his ballerina again. A bead of water dropped onto the tattered tips of his fingers; he lifted them to his face to dab at the corner of his eye. His hand passed over the glass of the door as he fumbled for his keys. He closed the door to his apartment behind him. He set his keys on the table trying to make as little noise as possible. He paused. Why was he trying to be quiet? Who for anymore? The pale tan line around his ring finger caught his gaze and he appraised it, chancing a sigh. He desperately wanted, no, needed to see the ballerina dance again. All he could do was think of her as he sat in the silence of his apartment.

There was a time in his life when walking through the door meant that he was greeted by a loving family, but now, as he stood alone in the empty apartment all he could do was remember what it was like. He shuffled and took off his jacket, folded it, and laid it on a chair. The idea struck him to find out if the ballet were coming back to town, and when he could see his ballerina next. He crossed the room to his laptop and he began his search. Rhythmically his fingers crossed the keys as they entered his query.

He was in luck. The ballet would be performing for the next three days. He got up and paced the apartment contemplating what he was going to do if he saw her again. Was he going to hide, or run, or make a fool of himself? What would he wear? Seeing her from his seat would not be enough. Neither would the separation of glass between them on her fire escape. He searched for listings in her building. He had to be close to her. He would go while she was performing at the ballet and get an apartment in her building. No! That would not be close enough. He would get a room on her floor. His heart broke because he knew that still that would not remedy his need for closeness. Then he saw the listing. He would get the apartment right next door to his precious ballerina. Until then he would wait. He reached the floor, grabbed a short blanket, and pulled it over him. He ran his fingers over the soft fabric. His tattered fingertips caught on the fabric as they glided over it. He wondered whether her skin would feel softer beneath his coarse hands. He waited through dawn.

The sun rose, letting light in through the closed blinds of his apartment. The dust lingered in the beam of golden light. The pipes in the wall pumped warm water through the building’s old bones. He heard the water running in the apartment next to his and wondered who else was greeting the sun as he was, who else would savor the early light and the golden dust that lingered in the beam of sunshine, but he put the thought out of his mind, only to have it replaced by thoughts long removed by the grasp of solitude.

He felt a draft behind him, the wake of someone moving in haste. He turned to look over his shoulder to see who it was, but there was no one there. He began to wonder if he was just imagining it. If living alone in this place had begun to take its toll on him. He just needed to get out more and see more of the sun. He smiled, shrugging it off as he turned toward the hallway. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he made his way toward the stairs. The elevator had been out for a while now, and whether it would ever be repaired would be forever up for debate. He opened the front door to be greeted by a winter chill. It picked up the end of his jacket and whipped it in its wake. He pulled the jacket tighter to his body and continued his course.

The ballerina awoke early in the morning. She thought of turning over and once again embracing sleep but rationally got the best of her. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she threw back her blanket. The cold of her apartment was biting and unwelcome yet nevertheless she rose from the warmth of her bed. Her feet slid across the scored hardwood floors of her apartment as she made her way to the bathroom. Her hand slid over the rusted steel faucet, and, with a squeak, it gave up water. She ran her hands under the water letting them sit there for a moment. She watched the water pour over her palms. It ran down her fingers into the drain where it circled. In that moment she wondered whether she was becoming the woman she wanted to be. She cupped the water in her hands and splashed it on her face.

The ballerina gripped the shower dial and turned it to the middle as she began to remove her sweater. The loose-fitting acrylic got bunched and thrown in a basket. She ran her hand under the shower to evaluate the temperature, then adjusted the dial for more heat. Her fingers found the waistband of her underwear, and she tugged at it, checking the fit, they were tight. Again, she checked the water and increased the temperature. Her thumbs slipped into the waistband just over her hips on either side. She could not help but notice the skin over her bones, how it gave against the pressure of her thumbs. She pulled down her light blue underwear to her ankles and stepped out of them. The mirror told a story. One she did not want to hear yet through the silence it cut. Grimacing she bent to pick them up off the floor, wadding them up to toss into the laundry basket.

Raising one leg after another she stepped into the warmth of the shower. The water was running down her body. Her mind lingered on what it would be like to have a lover’s hands run over her. The ballerina excused the fantasy. One hand returned the bar of soap to its dish and the other reached for shampoo. She turned it upside down to squeeze out a bead. She worked it into her scalp. Again, the fantasy resurfaced in her mind. She imagined her future lover’s fingers running through her hair, how he would brush it aside and kiss her softly on the lips. His fingers would massage her scalp, his arms would flex, tendons pull as he would move with purpose, with intent. She faced away from the shower head and rinsed the shampoo out of her hair.

She pulled back the curtain and stepped out onto the bathmat, wrapping a towel around herself. Shaking clear her head of the daydream she tried to set her mind back to the reality of the morning. She was running late. She pulled on a pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt and hastily exited her apartment. She rounded the hall passing by other tenants. If only she had not been in a hurry she would have noticed a man in a navy suit who stood waiting in the lobby of the apartment speaking with the manager inquiring about a room.

He did his best not to lose his breath as she breezed past him out onto the busy street. In an instant, sweat drenched the back of his shirt. His eyes widened. His goosebumps had returned. He was in the very presence of what he desired most. Excitement gripped him as he retrieved his new set of keys and briskly turned to walk up the stairs to his new sanctuary, one day to be a home for the two of them. He arrived at the door to his apartment, where he paused and looked longingly at the next door. He smiled softly and opened the door to his new place. A place where he would start a new family with his new love. He would make that apartment a place that he could come home to. A place with his ballerina.

He paced around the empty room. Its bare walls were covered in wrinkled wallpaper. His footsteps made little noise as he gently made his way around the room, floating about it like a thief in the night. Then an idea struck him. He knew his ballerina was not at home. He turned on his heels and cracked open the door into the derelict hallway. It was deathly quiet. He glided out into the hallway and put his palm flat on her door, his fingers sliding over the grain of the wood. His other hand slipped down to the doorknob and slowly twisted it, producing a soft click, and it creaked open. She must have forgotten to lock it in her hurried exit. He was elated.

He stepped inside closing the door behind him as deftly as he could. His eyes spun in his head as his mind raced. He walked over to her bed, where he had watched her sleep the night before. The small unmade bed beckoned him in. He embraced its invitation and crouched beside where she laid her head. He ran his hands over her comforter, holding it tightly in his fingers and he savored the texture and imagined how it would feel as he ran his hand over her form as he held her as she drifted off to a peaceful sleep. She would feel safe in his arms, and he would do everything to make her feel safe. He let the blanket fall from his fingers like grains of sand.

He ripped himself from rapture and continued to look around the room, slowly going over every detail. That is when the laundry basket caught his eye. He walked up to it and reached down into the bottom and extracted an acrylic sweater which he gingerly set to the side when he noticed a pair of underwear that now rested alone in the bottom of the basket. His hand trembled as he fetched them from where they rested. He rubbed the soft fabric between his index finger and thumb as he tried to control his fluttering breath before slipping them into his pocket and moving on to the window where he had watched her sleep. He lifted his hand to the lock and flipped from its locked position and slid it open letting the cool air fill the room. He thought that it helped to cool his flushed face. He paused and turned back to the front door. The thought of someone else coming into their special place. The thought of another coming in and running their hands over her laundry, her bedding, her body. He stomped back to the door in a rage and twisted the deadbolt sharply before returning to the window. He ducked and swung a leg over the sill stepping out onto the fire escape before finally sliding the window shut. He lingered for a heartbeat, smiling softly to himself looking in at her empty bed. He turned, walked over to the window, slid it open, stepped through, and waited.

It was dark as the ballerina returned to her apartment; a duffle bag swung over her shoulder. Exhausted, she dragged herself up the flights of stairs. Halfway through them a thought shot across her mind. She could not remember if she locked her door. She hastened her pace, her steps, thudding up the stairs and down her hallway. His heart skipped a beat at the sound of her footsteps daintily patter past his door. His spirit soared triumphantly as he listened as she tried her locked door. He thrilled at the thought that he had made good on his promise to keep her safe—from people who wanted to harm her, from people who would break into her apartment and steal from her. His hand drifted to his pocket that held her underwear and he held them tightly between his fingers.

She sighed a heavy breath of release when she twisted the knob to no avail. Thanking herself for remembering to do this one simple thing in her hurry. The keys jingled in her pocket, and she fished them from where they rested. He inhaled sharply. He waited there with his ear to the door as her door squeaked open, then closed with a soft click. He swiftly opened his door and moved over to her door and raised his hand to knock but paused when he heard the shower running through the old wood door. His hand went to the doorknob and he twisted it, but it yielded no result. He moved quickly and quietly back to her window, taking care not to produce a rattle or a groan from the fire escape. He crouched over the window to peer inside.

She grabbed at the hem of her baggy sweatshirt and pulled it up over her head and tossed it into the laundry basket. Then she slid down her sweatpants and then her underwear to step out of them before bending down to pick them up and place them in the laundry basket. His heart raced within him as he took in her visage. She was everything that he imagined she would be. He placed a hand on the windowsill and forced himself not to open the window and embrace her. He thought of how he would dramatically slide open the window and jump in. How he would approach her with his arms wide to accept her love, her excitement that her husband was home. These images flashed before his eyes and the dream carried him away. He placed his palm on the glass and began to slide the window open as his love stepped into the bathroom and out of sight. He was tethered to her as though he could only allow a finite amount of space between them. As she walked away, he drew in.

The running water covered a multitude of his desperate mistakes. The rattle of the fire escape. The sound of the window sliding open quicker than he had wanted, the soft thud of his footsteps on her hardwood floors. The sound of the shower curtain closing beckoned him deeper into her home, their home. He walked around, heart pounding as he peered through the door. The steam was thick and hung heavy in the air. Moisture beaded on the mirror. He crept over the threshold, the steam warming his face. Slowly and deliberately, he made his way across the room over to the toilet, where he lowered the lid as quietly as possible before easing himself on to it. He sat there with her. He watched her as she lathered her body with soap. As her hands glided over her flesh. He took it all in, the smells, her silhouette as she washed off the day. He envied the soap and the shampoo, the conditioner, the towel that she had placed on the counter across from the shower. The thought of them having what he did not yet infuriated him. He grabbed up the towel and wrung his anger into it. He stood in a rush and reached for the shower curtain to rip it away so that he could finally have her for himself.

The faucet squeaked and the water slowed, snapping him from his rage. He hurried out of the bathroom as the sound of water circling the drain chased at his heels. He hurried back to the window before stopping when something gleaming in a small dish caught his eye. He turned to it to see a key that bore her apartment number and a small plastic tag with spare written on it. He snatched it free from the dish and spun to leave the way he came in. She swung open the curtain and stepped out of the shower, her footsteps slapping against the tile. He pulled himself onto the fire escape and shut the window behind him.

She looked over to where her towel had been, trying to remember if she had set one out. She concluded that she must have forgotten after the long day. She bent to open the towel cupboard and pulled a rolled-up cotton towel from the shelf. She let it unfurl, using one end to wipe the mirror clean. The towel clung to her wet skin as she wrapped it around herself, walking out into the main room. The ballerina walked over to her fridge and opened it to scrounge for something to eat. Her stomach was always empty.

The ballerina finished drying herself off, threw on a long shirt and a pair of underwear, then flopped against her mattress. She lay there in the dark, tossing and turning. Her eyes wandered aimlessly through the dark before finally landing on her window. She lifted her head from the pillow as she inspected it more closely. She pulled herself from her covers and slowly walked over to it, eyeing it. A smudged handprint was on the glass. She took the corner of her shirt and rubbed at it, but it did not come off. She went to unlock the window, but it was already unlocked. Puzzled, she slid it open and reached out to rub it with her finger. Her finger left a sharp, clean line through the center of the palmprint. She turned and walked to her kitchen to grab a dish rag. He watched her as she walked away from the open window. He cursed himself. He remembered the towel in his hand and thought of quickly wiping it off the glass, but he thought better of it and crept back into his apartment through the window. She returned with a tattered rag and wiped off the print, shut and locked the window, then returned to her bed, pulled the covers over herself, and went to sleep. Next door, he unrolled the towel. He lay on the floor, pulling it over him. He waited until the morning.

When the locksmith opened, he took the pilfered spare key from the night before and had a copy made and purchased lubricant for the squeaky hinges. He would wait until she left and let himself back in to return what he had taken. Like clockwork, he heard the click of the door and her soft steps trailing off down the hallway. He moved immediately as soon as he thought she was sufficiently away. His key slid easily into the lock and worked the bolt with a twist. He inhaled sharply and pushed his way into her apartment. He replaced the key in its dish and oiled the door hinges, swinging it back and forth repeatedly to make sure that it would yield no noise next time it was opened. He returned to his apartment and waited for her.

He stood at his door listening for her return. For her steps. For her door to click shut. And finally, her shower. He stood fussing with his collar and running his hand through his hair until all was quiet from beyond their shared wall. He put his key in the lock, feeling every tumbler take its place, inviting him in. Inviting him home. He turned it and slowly opened the door. He entered, searching for his love. He paused, his breath catching in his throat when he saw her lying in bed. He exhaled through his nose, tears welling in his eyes. Finally, he would have her. Drawn by her beauty, he moved to her bedside. He lifted a hand and brushed it against her cheek.

She woke with a start to a filthy hand moving down her face. A man in a tattered suit stood over her. She sprang up from her bed and ran to the window. He followed slowly, arms open, as if to receive her embrace. She tried to pry it open, but it was locked. Her shaking fingers fumbled with it as the man got closer. She opened the clasp and forced the window open.

The fresh night air rushed in around them. He reached for her and spun her back toward him. Their eyes met. Adoration in his. Terror in hers. In that moment he could see the love she had for him.

She fought against his grasp. Terror gripped her as she saw his dirt-caked face. She tried to push away from him.

His heart soared as she placed her hands flat against his chest. He seized her wrist as they slowly began to repeat the simple steps he had learned long ago. He was finally going to have his dance. He spun her to hold her from behind, wrapping his arm around her waist. He ran his hand up her body to her neck. She leaned her head back, releasing a strained gasp. He turned her once more, admiring her, his fingers still at her throat. He was taken with how happy she made him. He could not imagine letting her go. He would never let her go. The ballerina fell into his arms, resting her cheek against his chest. Her gasping stopped, and she rested against him as they danced together.

It was not long before complaints about the smell started to pile up. First with management and then with the proper authorities. It was far too long before they arrived and beat down the door of the ballerina’s apartment. They found a man with his arms wrapped around a badly decomposed body. The authorities made their way slowly into the room with their pistols drawn. He swayed back and forth with her, ever so slightly rotating as he did. Eventually he met their gaze and smiled. Wide. Content. He stopped, carried her to the bed, and laid her down with care. He then bent over her and kissed her on the cheek. He sat beside her and began running his now blackened fingers through her hair.