u/Velvet_Room_6579

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"Again? No comment again? Not even a nod."
Sabine went through the entire body checklist: head at the right angle, neck long, shoulders down, flat back, elbows up, fingers in proper positions, core tight, proper turn-out from the rotators. Everything was fine. So why nothing from him again?

She was still holding the pose, in her usual place in the middle of the barre — beginners behind her, the advanced group ahead. Sabine was starting to be fed up, waiting for the end of the class to really think about the class and everything that was happening, or rather not happening in it. She decided to re-evaluate her decision to go back to ballet classes after almost 30 years, and whether her family, her friends, her colleagues were actually right when they said it’s not for her any more.

Instructor moved down the line, correcting the placements, commenting on others, getting closer. Commenting on the head placement of the women before her. Passing her. Then a nod and a gesture for the next two. She felt a bit deflated, but refused to let her body slump or go easy in the position. Holding the position, tightening it is the only way she knew how to respond; not by changing it but striving to perfect it.
Something changed in his approach to her a few classes back, but she refused to think about it during the class, afraid to make a mistake, attracting the wrong kind of his attention.

Luckily, it was the end of the class and she made sure that her grande reverence is executed perfectly, keeping up with the advanced group.
She liked ballet, its difficulty, level of concentration it required, the neatness and tightness of it and it bothered her that she was unable to reach the proper headspace this evening in the class. Not really socialising type, she changed quickly, giving a shortest possible goodbye to the others.

Winter was her time of the year, with clear nights reflecting her thoughts, time of year which required planned attitude and engagement with the world, accompanied with careful examination of one’s priorities.
Cold was always welcome, the streets nearly empty allowing her to walk without constantly being aware of the others and their trajectories. Pulling the foulard higher, tucking it under her chin, hands deep in her pockets, she thought back to what had crossed her mind in class: were they right?

Everyone had an opinion on her taking up ballet classes again, reactions from raised eyebrows to blatantly “at your age, Sabine? Are you sure?”. She had heard them all and said nothing, not trying to explain that when you on the wrong side of the 40s, you’re done with nurturing your body, you are down to maintenance, and if that is not accompanied with a strong mind, with clear sense of “self”… you’re done for. You just let yourself be taken over by age, frustration, pain, and everything else that comes with the loss of control. She remembered ballet and the clarity of the mind when you are in the class and afterwards.

Giving herself to the precision of the movements, the mind going still — in her body, aware of every movement of her arm, the tilt of her head, no rushing, no cutting corners, deep plié, extended arm, chin lifted, concentrated on every note, every count. She liked disappearing in its clarity, when she was in control but out of her body in some way, observing and correcting as the beat dictated. She had missed the strictness of ballet — the way it demanded everything, giving back the clarity of mind and exhaustion and pain of the body in return.
And yet, almost three months in, she was leaving class the same way she had arrived — unbalanced, her effort unacknowledged. She wanted praise, confirmation of her efforts and instincts, final seal of approval of her choices and convictions.

She turned the corner, the cold sharper now, and let the thought settle: this could not go on. Next class, she would make him see her — and if he wouldn't, she would make it impossible for him to look away.

The heaviness of anticipation settled in her chest.
She had been precise for weeks, faultless in the way that had yielded nothing, and so she let her arm drop a fraction early on the port de bras — small enough to be accidental, significant enough that he should have caught it. He moved down the line without breaking stride.
Her tendu derrière was wrong in every way she knew how to be wrong — standing leg soft, hip dropped. She looked him straight to the eye as he passed, challenging him with her body and her look and every thought in her head to redirect her, to discipline her, to set her on correct path. He looked at her body, looked at her face, really looked this time and said nothing. He moved down the line.
Sabine did not like confrontation — she had always considered it a failure of reason. She went through the motions in the changing room, half-present, running the beginning of the conversation she knew she would have to have. Everything was sharpened, grating on her nerves: the wetness of her leotard, the usual smell of the changing room, sweat and dust and perfume, the muted conversation of the others.

Finally, she was the only one left. She could hear him walking around the studio, checking the space.
The studio was half-dark, a single light left on at the far end. She walked back in and stood just inside the door in her dark clothes, hands clasped behind her back, feet in sixth position — her face pale in the dim, eyes wide and still, waiting. He was moving through the space, his back to her, and then he stopped. And turned.

He moved towards the door. Just to the side of it was a lamp he turned back on. The sudden light made the lines of her face sharper, deeper, one side bathed in light.
"Why don't you want to see me?" she said.
"Why don't you want to be seen?" he said.
They looked at each other for a long moment, she barely breathing, him evaluating her. He beckoned her to enter the studio, indicating the place where she should come — not to the barre, but to the centre of the space. She was silent as she took the position. He walked around her slowly, and she kept her eyes forward, her back straight, hands at her sides this time. "You don't let anyone see you fall apart," he said, somewhere behind her. "So there's only one version of you, one side of you, I can see in the class."

She said nothing, and something in her mind quieted — she was recognised, if only to be told what was wrong. The silence between them held, he came back around to face her, pleased with her compliance.
He looked at her. She kept her eyes straight ahead, aware that she could not move — not her feet, not her shoulders, not anything — unless told to. The urge came sudden and unbidden: to squirm, to press her legs together, to tighten everything about herself.

"Do you want to know what you're capable of?" he said. "Where your mind and body can take you?"
She nodded her head. “I need words, use your words” he said quietly.
“Yes," she said. "Show me."
"Can you assume first position for me, please?" he said.
She breathed in, slow and deep, and did it. He walked around her once then stopped behind her. His fingers found her shoulder blades — a light touch, more in appreciation of her execution rather than a correction.
"Good. Hold it. Mind your core. Pull up the muscles in your thighs," — his hand pressed lightly against her core — "very good."
"Come to the barre," he said. "Second position, please."
She moved into it. He kept observing her, with a clinical eye. "Spread your legs wider."
"Grand plié," he said.
She turned to face the side, one hand on the barre, and began the descent. "Take it all the way down and come back up slowly."
Sabine wondered how deep she could go. She knew she could take it all the way down, but something in her stopped her from doing it.

He let her come up, standing behind her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he said: «Again. Slowly, all the way down. That’s it.» He pressed on her shoulders, anchoring her.
She struggled with her breathing knowing it will reflect on her grand plié.
«That’s ok, I got you. Breath with me. Deep breath in - and as you exhale slowly go down. Good girl»
She went down, breathing in sync with him, quieting her mind.
«You are so much more than you showed me so far. Aren’t you curious to know your limits?, « he asked.
«What happens if I let go and find out? What happens to me then?» she asked
«I can’t tell you that, but I know you won’t be sorry. Shall we continue?»
«Please.» she said
«Good. Can you show me your développé à la seconde? «
He stood in front of her, observing as she unfolded her right leg slowly.
« Hold until I tell you to relax.»
«Can he smell me? He can smell me, how could he not, with legs this opened and facing him. Let him, I want it,» she thought, carefully breathing.

She felt like she was floating, her brain and mind quiet, his voice and presence the only anchor to reality. She stood in the positions, her hands lightly on her hips.
«Relax slowly, slowly…good girl» his voice was barely a whisper at the end of the sentence.
He said "relax" and she did, slowly, her leg descending.
It went on and on, his voice, her obedience, soft sound of their feet and deep breaths.

"Révérence, please."
She moved through it, unhurried — the bow, the acknowledgment, the close. As she folded forward his hand found her back, light and brief, just there.
When she came up he was watching her quietly.
"Come down to the floor," he said. "Sit back against the wall."
She moved to it slowly, folding down with more care than usual, her back finding the cool of the wall. She closed her eyes. Something in her chest had gone still — not empty, the opposite of empty. She didn't reach for words for it. It was enough to sit with it, to let it be what it was.
He disappeared through the door to the changing room. She didn't track the sound of him. The studio settled around her, dim and quiet, and she stayed inside the quiet willingly, her hands loose in her lap. She had not felt like this in a long time. She was not sure she had ever felt like this. Worked, stilled. Herself, but less defended.
He came back. Set things down beside her without a word — her foulard, a food bar. Opened the bottle of water and handed it to her. Draped the foulard around her shoulders. Then sat down on the floor next to her, his back to the wall.

"Drink some water," he said.
She did.
After a moment he picked up the food bar, broke off a piece and placed it in her hand. "Have a bite or two. It's important to nourish the body afterwards."
She ate. Neither of them spoke for a while.

"I'm proud of you," he said. She looked at him then. "And I'm grateful — that you decided to open up to me."
They continued sitting there, unhurried, he still looking ahead and her with her fuzzy brain, exhausted, munching on the fruit bar and taking small sips of water. After a while, he stood up, slowly, and she followed his lead, accepting his hand as she rose.

She changed in the locker room while he turned off the lights and gathered his things. Sabine wanted to go back, pick up the bottle of water and the bar wrap, but he said to leave it, he’ll be back in the morning to sort it out.

“I’ll walk you home, it will do us both good,” he said.
They walked out into the street; she moved beside him, still quiet inside herself, the foulard wrapped close, the rest of her still warm. Cold wind picked up when they've reached the main thoroughfare. She was grateful he offered to see her home, finding his solid presence and the closeness of his body all she needed at that moment.

At her building door she stopped and turned to him. “Thank you for tonight. I might not look like I appreciate it, but this meant so much to me,” she said.
He nodded and said "I will see you next week". She stood in front of him, a windbreak against the cold, and reached up to tuck his scarf in, keeping the warmth close to him.

"Again? No comment again? Not even a nod."
Sabine went through the entire body checklist: head at the right angle, neck long, shoulders down, flat back, elbows up, fingers in proper positions, core tight, proper turn-out from the rotators. Everything was fine. So why nothing from him again?

She was still holding the pose, in her usual place in the middle of the barre — beginners behind her, the advanced group ahead. Sabine was starting to be fed up, waiting for the end of the class to really think about the class and everything that was happening, or rather not happening in it. She decided to re-evaluate her decision to go back to ballet classes after almost 30 years, and whether her family, her friends, her colleagues were actually right when they said it’s not for her any more.

Instructor moved down the line, correcting the placements, commenting on others, getting closer. Commenting on the head placement of the women before her. Passing her. Then a nod and a gesture for the next two. She felt a bit deflated, but refused to let her body slump or go easy in the position. Holding the position, tightening it is the only way she knew how to respond; not by changing it but striving to perfect it.
Something changed in his approach to her a few classes back, but she refused to think about it during the class, afraid to make a mistake, attracting the wrong kind of his attention.

Luckily, it was the end of the class and she made sure that her grande reverence is executed perfectly, keeping up with the advanced group.
She liked ballet, its difficulty, level of concentration it required, the neatness and tightness of it and it bothered her that she was unable to reach the proper headspace this evening in the class. Not really socialising type, she changed quickly, giving a shortest possible goodbye to the others.

Winter was her time of the year, with clear nights reflecting her thoughts, time of year which required planned attitude and engagement with the world, accompanied with careful examination of one’s priorities.
Cold was always welcome, the streets nearly empty allowing her to walk without constantly being aware of the others and their trajectories. Pulling the foulard higher, tucking it under her chin, hands deep in her pockets, she thought back to what had crossed her mind in class: were they right?

Everyone had an opinion on her taking up ballet classes again, reactions from raised eyebrows to blatantly “at your age, Sabine? Are you sure?”. She had heard them all and said nothing, not trying to explain that when you on the wrong side of the 40s, you’re done with nurturing your body, you are down to maintenance, and if that is not accompanied with a strong mind, with clear sense of “self”… you’re done for. You just let yourself be taken over by age, frustration, pain, and everything else that comes with the loss of control. She remembered ballet and the clarity of the mind when you are in the class and afterwards.

Giving herself to the precision of the movements, the mind going still — in her body, aware of every movement of her arm, the tilt of her head, no rushing, no cutting corners, deep plié, extended arm, chin lifted, concentrated on every note, every count. She liked disappearing in its clarity, when she was in control but out of her body in some way, observing and correcting as the beat dictated. She had missed the strictness of ballet — the way it demanded everything, giving back the clarity of mind and exhaustion and pain of the body in return.
And yet, almost three months in, she was leaving class the same way she had arrived — unbalanced, her effort unacknowledged. She wanted praise, confirmation of her efforts and instincts, final seal of approval of her choices and convictions.

She turned the corner, the cold sharper now, and let the thought settle: this could not go on. Next class, she would make him see her — and if he wouldn't, she would make it impossible for him to look away.

The heaviness of anticipation settled in her chest.
She had been precise for weeks, faultless in the way that had yielded nothing, and so she let her arm drop a fraction early on the port de bras — small enough to be accidental, significant enough that he should have caught it. He moved down the line without breaking stride.
Her tendu derrière was wrong in every way she knew how to be wrong — standing leg soft, hip dropped. She looked him straight to the eye as he passed, challenging him with her body and her look and every thought in her head to redirect her, to discipline her, to set her on correct path. He looked at her body, looked at her face, really looked this time and said nothing. He moved down the line.
Sabine did not like confrontation — she had always considered it a failure of reason. She went through the motions in the changing room, half-present, running the beginning of the conversation she knew she would have to have. Everything was sharpened, grating on her nerves: the wetness of her leotard, the usual smell of the changing room, sweat and dust and perfume, the muted conversation of the others.

Finally, she was the only one left. She could hear him walking around the studio, checking the space.
The studio was half-dark, a single light left on at the far end. She walked back in and stood just inside the door in her dark clothes, hands clasped behind her back, feet in sixth position — her face pale in the dim, eyes wide and still, waiting. He was moving through the space, his back to her, and then he stopped. And turned.

He moved towards the door. Just to the side of it was a lamp he turned back on. The sudden light made the lines of her face sharper, deeper, one side bathed in light.
"Why don't you want to see me?" she said.
"Why don't you want to be seen?" he said.
They looked at each other for a long moment, she barely breathing, him evaluating her. He beckoned her to enter the studio, indicating the place where she should come — not to the barre, but to the centre of the space. She was silent as she took the position. He walked around her slowly, and she kept her eyes forward, her back straight, hands at her sides this time. "You don't let anyone see you fall apart," he said, somewhere behind her. "So there's only one version of you, one side of you, I can see in the class."

She said nothing, and something in her mind quieted — she was recognised, if only to be told what was wrong. The silence between them held, he came back around to face her, pleased with her compliance.
He looked at her. She kept her eyes straight ahead, aware that she could not move — not her feet, not her shoulders, not anything — unless told to. The urge came sudden and unbidden: to squirm, to press her legs together, to tighten everything about herself.

"Do you want to know what you're capable of?" he said. "Where your mind and body can take you?"
She nodded her head. “I need words, use your words” he said quietly.
“Yes," she said. "Show me."
"Can you assume first position for me, please?" he said.
She breathed in, slow and deep, and did it. He walked around her once then stopped behind her. His fingers found her shoulder blades — a light touch, more in appreciation of her execution rather than a correction.
"Good. Hold it. Mind your core. Pull up the muscles in your thighs," — his hand pressed lightly against her core — "very good."
"Come to the barre," he said. "Second position, please."
She moved into it. He kept observing her, with a clinical eye. "Spread your legs wider."
"Grand plié," he said.
She turned to face the side, one hand on the barre, and began the descent. "Take it all the way down and come back up slowly."
Sabine wondered how deep she could go. She knew she could take it all the way down, but something in her stopped her from doing it.

He let her come up, standing behind her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he said: «Again. Slowly, all the way down. That’s it.» He pressed on her shoulders, anchoring her.
She struggled with her breathing knowing it will reflect on her grand plié.
«That’s ok, I got you. Breath with me. Deep breath in - and as you exhale slowly go down. Good girl»
She went down, breathing in sync with him, quieting her mind.
«You are so much more than you showed me so far. Aren’t you curious to know your limits?, « he asked.
«What happens if I let go and find out? What happens to me then?» she asked
«I can’t tell you that, but I know you won’t be sorry. Shall we continue?»
«Please.» she said
«Good. Can you show me your développé à la seconde? «
He stood in front of her, observing as she unfolded her right leg slowly.
« Hold until I tell you to relax.»
«Can he smell me? He can smell me, how could he not, with legs this opened and facing him. Let him, I want it,» she thought, carefully breathing.

She felt like she was floating, her brain and mind quiet, his voice and presence the only anchor to reality. She stood in the positions, her hands lightly on her hips.
«Relax slowly, slowly…good girl» his voice was barely a whisper at the end of the sentence.
He said "relax" and she did, slowly, her leg descending.
It went on and on, his voice, her obedience, soft sound of their feet and deep breaths.

"Révérence, please."
She moved through it, unhurried — the bow, the acknowledgment, the close. As she folded forward his hand found her back, light and brief, just there.
When she came up he was watching her quietly.
"Come down to the floor," he said. "Sit back against the wall."
She moved to it slowly, folding down with more care than usual, her back finding the cool of the wall. She closed her eyes. Something in her chest had gone still — not empty, the opposite of empty. She didn't reach for words for it. It was enough to sit with it, to let it be what it was.
He disappeared through the door to the changing room. She didn't track the sound of him. The studio settled around her, dim and quiet, and she stayed inside the quiet willingly, her hands loose in her lap. She had not felt like this in a long time. She was not sure she had ever felt like this. Worked, stilled. Herself, but less defended.
He came back. Set things down beside her without a word — her foulard, a food bar. Opened the bottle of water and handed it to her. Draped the foulard around her shoulders. Then sat down on the floor next to her, his back to the wall.

"Drink some water," he said.
She did.
After a moment he picked up the food bar, broke off a piece and placed it in her hand. "Have a bite or two. It's important to nourish the body afterwards."
She ate. Neither of them spoke for a while.

"I'm proud of you," he said. She looked at him then. "And I'm grateful — that you decided to open up to me."
They continued sitting there, unhurried, he still looking ahead and her with her fuzzy brain, exhausted, munching on the fruit bar and taking small sips of water. After a while, he stood up, slowly, and she followed his lead, accepting his hand as she rose.

She changed in the locker room while he turned off the lights and gathered his things. Sabine wanted to go back, pick up the bottle of water and the bar wrap, but he said to leave it, he’ll be back in the morning to sort it out.

“I’ll walk you home, it will do us both good,” he said.
They walked out into the street; she moved beside him, still quiet inside herself, the foulard wrapped close, the rest of her still warm. Cold wind picked up when they've reached the main thoroughfare. She was grateful he offered to see her home, finding his solid presence and the closeness of his body all she needed at that moment.

At her building door she stopped and turned to him. “Thank you for tonight. I might not look like I appreciate it, but this meant so much to me,” she said.
He nodded and said "I will see you next week". She stood in front of him, a windbreak against the cold, and reached up to tuck his scarf in, keeping the warmth close to him.

She'd only gone in because it was new. 
Nuala had a weakness for new places in the first weeks before they found their rhythm — before familiarity set in on both sides. She liked that window. The anonymity of it. It wouldn't last.
He was the one who took her order the first time. Funny, easy with it, the kind of person who made everyone feel like the most recent arrival at a party they were already enjoying. Honey-coloured hair, blue eyes. A genuine smile. She noticed the way you notice a fine face. Thought, briefly, that he was a ride. That was all.
She went back.
She liked him. It used to be so easy — the flirting, the back and forth. She knew how that worked. Enjoyed a game. Up to a point, of course.
She saw herself in other women now. In those women. The ones in films, in cafés, across rooms. The slightly too-careful laugh. The trying. Over tipping for a cup of coffee. She had no intention of being that woman.
The second time he wasn't her waiter. She noticed. The third time he was, and somewhere between ordering and leaving the thought came again — briefly, without landing anywhere. Still a ride. She smiled at him.
She left it there.
Except.
Except she was fifty-three now, and for the better part of two years the same inventory had been running on a loop she couldn't switch off — and couldn't quite face head-on either, so it ran in the background instead, surfacing at odd moments. On the Tube. In the middle of conversations. At three in the morning.
The job paid the bills. She’d stopped striving for something else long ago. The pattern of taking what came and making the best of it, which she'd always called pragmatism and was only now considering might have been fear with better PR. She wasintelligent, learnt to read the room and people — and people had always opened up to her easily, which she preferred anyway.She was pretty enough that doors used to open before she'd knocked, which had made it easy, for a long time, not to knock very hard. She should’ve used her looks more.
The other part was harder. She'd liked sex — genuinely, not as performance, not always. She knew her body, knew what got her off. She knew how to get others off. She did not know what she was capable of, what were her limits and what would bring her true pleasure. Said yes sometimes because it was easier than the conversation that would follow a no, but not always that either. Said yes sometimes to reckless, casual sex, because it just might happen that the other person would stop her and tell her she’s better than that. She'd have called herself adventurous, if asked. Open. And yet. There was always a point, some invisible line she'd never been able to locate in advance, where something in her seized and she'd find herself on the other side of it — composed, unreachable, the moment gone. The men who'd noticed had mostly said nothing. The ones who had said something hadn't lasted long.
What did she want? She wasn’t sure exactly, but longing, the fire she could feel inside her must’ve meant something. But she was fifty-three, and the world was quieter around her. And underneath that — quieter still — she would sometimes build worlds inside herself, ones full of right moments, right looks and taken opportunities.

 
She liked Celeste, former model, wife and mother of one. Easy to talk to, not prying too much into Nuala’s motives or reactions. Bar after the theatre was a given, and in all honesty, that was sometimes the best part of the evening.
They walked in together. The room responded to Céleste theusual way when a pretty thing is on display. For Nuala, it meant she had enough time to do the usual inventory: head high, back straight, careful walk, don’t look around, relax the face. Nobody would have known her toes were curled tight inside her heels.
She noticed him before she'd taken the first sip. He was a few stools down, part of the group clearly celebrating something. She noticed him the way she'd noticed him in the café: a fine face, the kind of easy warmth that worked on everyone. She looked and then stopped looking. Filed it.
The evening moved the way evenings do — in rounds, in small migrations, in the gradual thinning of noise into something more manageable. Nuala had a second drink, then a third, spaced enough that she felt only the soft edges of them. She and Céleste talked the way they always talked — easily, without effort, the conversation finding its own level. Nuala was careful in her glances, measuring the length of each with precision accumulated over the years.
His group had been four. Then three. Now two, the other one a woman who kept checking her phone with the distracted air of someone about to leave.
Once he laughed at something and she heard it without meaning to, and thought: yes, that's the laugh. The same one she'd noticed in the café, a half-beat behind everyone else's, like he'd actually considered whether it was funny first.
He glanced over. She didn't look away in time.
He didn't make anything of it. Just held it for a second, easy, and then went back to his conversation.
The woman with the phone left.
He was alone.

 
Céleste went to the bathroom and he came over. Not immediately — and then he was just there, a stool between them.
It was late enough that neither of them had anything left — no energy, no will, no interest in making anyone comfortable.
*You were in Brennan's*, he said. *A couple of weeks ago. Tuesday morning, I think*.
She had been. She said so.
*I wasn't sure, he said. You look different tonight.*
She waited.
*Not different. More—* He stopped. Smiled at himself. *Sorry. That came out wrong.*
*It didn't*, she said. And meant it.
*Are you good friends with them?* she asked. *The people you were with.*
He considered it a moment longer than she expected.
*Not really,* he said. *We work together.*
She nodded. Said nothing. Let him hear what she'd actually asked.
*That obvious?* he said.
*No,* she said. Which was almost true.
Céleste came back from the bathroom and stopped just behind her shoulder. Nuala felt her there before she saw her — the particular stillness of someone who has walked into something and is deciding how to handle it.
She turned. Céleste's expression was neutral in the way that meant the opposite.
Nuala looked at him from the corner of her eye, holding the glass in her hand. He didn't shift. Didn't recalibrate. She set the glass down.
*Oh,* Celeste said, looking past Nuala toward the far end of the bar. I*s that Sorcha? God, I haven't seen her in — I'm just going to say hello*. A hand on Nuala's arm, brief, warm. The look that went with it said something else entirely.
She was gone before Nuala could respond.

 
She bought herself another drink. He stayed.
She leaned in to be heard over the noise.
*Do you always watch people*, she asked, *or is that just tonight?*
He looked at her for a moment. Really looked.
*Both,* he said. *You?*
*Always,* she said. The half-smile already there, one eyebrow slightly raised.
He smiled — not the easy professional one she'd catalogued before. Something quieter.
She didn't let herself think. Or tried not to — the what-ifs arriving anyway, uninvited: what if he didn't like her what if someone found out what if she was being taken advantage of he was so much younger what if what if.
Don't show it. Stay focused. But keep thinking, never stop thinking.
She reached for her glass.
He was still there, leaning on the bar with both arms, looking at his drink. He turned his head toward her — just slightly — and said something about the air being stifling. She murmured something back. Could have been yes, could have been no, could have been whatever he wanted to make of it.
But she followed him as he moved toward the door.

 
The alley ran along the side of the building, a loose respite from the wind that started picking up. They stood in it. Their breath showed slightly in the cold. She was aware of the distance between them in the way you become aware of something only when it starts to change.
She didn't know how it happened exactly. A step. A pause that went a beat too long. The cold, maybe, pulling them closer by degrees until close became something else.
He kissed her, or she kissed him — the sequence blurred almost immediately, which felt right. His mouth was warm and unhurried. A good kisser, she thought. And the kiss got better. He placed both hands around her face, deepening it.
And her thoughts surfaced. Like a scale — the deeper the kiss, the closer fear came to the surface. The better it is, the better he is, the more dangerous this thing is.
The emergency shutdown started: her lips slightly less open, her tongue less present, her body pressed against his a fraction less. Outside: still. Inside: everything at once, too loud to name.
He felt it. She knew he felt it because he didn't push. Just stayed, close, his forehead almost against hers. She was glad he felt it. His thumb moved from her nose, under her eye, along the edge of her face. Like he was wiping away a tear. Her alarm got louder.
*You okay?* he said.
*Yes,* she said.
They stood there a moment longer.
She was still quiet, thinking: I'll say yes if he tries again. He smiled — the quiet one, not the easy one — and said nothing.

She'd only gone in because it was new. 
Nuala had a weakness for new places in the first weeks before they found their rhythm — before familiarity set in on both sides. She liked that window. The anonymity of it. It wouldn't last.
He was the one who took her order the first time. Funny, easy with it, the kind of person who made everyone feel like the most recent arrival at a party they were already enjoying. Honey-coloured hair, blue eyes. A genuine smile. She noticed the way you notice a fine face. Thought, briefly, that he was a ride. That was all.
She went back.
She liked him. It used to be so easy — the flirting, the back and forth. She knew how that worked. Enjoyed a game. Up to a point, of course.
She saw herself in other women now. In those women. The ones in films, in cafés, across rooms. The slightly too-careful laugh. The trying. Over tipping for a cup of coffee. She had no intention of being that woman.
The second time he wasn't her waiter. She noticed. The third time he was, and somewhere between ordering and leaving the thought came again — briefly, without landing anywhere. Still a ride. She smiled at him.
She left it there.
Except.
Except she was fifty-three now, and for the better part of two years the same inventory had been running on a loop she couldn't switch off — and couldn't quite face head-on either, so it ran in the background instead, surfacing at odd moments. On the Tube. In the middle of conversations. At three in the morning.
The job paid the bills. She’d stopped striving for something else long ago. The pattern of taking what came and making the best of it, which she'd always called pragmatism and was only now considering might have been fear with better PR. She wasintelligent, learnt to read the room and people — and people had always opened up to her easily, which she preferred anyway.She was pretty enough that doors used to open before she'd knocked, which had made it easy, for a long time, not to knock very hard. She should’ve used her looks more.
The other part was harder. She'd liked sex — genuinely, not as performance, not always. She knew her body, knew what got her off. She knew how to get others off. She did not know what she was capable of, what were her limits and what would bring her true pleasure. Said yes sometimes because it was easier than the conversation that would follow a no, but not always that either. Said yes sometimes to reckless, casual sex, because it just might happen that the other person would stop her and tell her she’s better than that. She'd have called herself adventurous, if asked. Open. And yet. There was always a point, some invisible line she'd never been able to locate in advance, where something in her seized and she'd find herself on the other side of it — composed, unreachable, the moment gone. The men who'd noticed had mostly said nothing. The ones who had said something hadn't lasted long.
What did she want? She wasn’t sure exactly, but longing, the fire she could feel inside her must’ve meant something. But she was fifty-three, and the world was quieter around her. And underneath that — quieter still — she would sometimes build worlds inside herself, ones full of right moments, right looks and taken opportunities.

 
She liked Celeste, former model, wife and mother of one. Easy to talk to, not prying too much into Nuala’s motives or reactions. Bar after the theatre was a given, and in all honesty, that was sometimes the best part of the evening.
They walked in together. The room responded to Céleste theusual way when a pretty thing is on display. For Nuala, it meant she had enough time to do the usual inventory: head high, back straight, careful walk, don’t look around, relax the face. Nobody would have known her toes were curled tight inside her heels.
She noticed him before she'd taken the first sip. He was a few stools down, part of the group clearly celebrating something. She noticed him the way she'd noticed him in the café: a fine face, the kind of easy warmth that worked on everyone. She looked and then stopped looking. Filed it.
The evening moved the way evenings do — in rounds, in small migrations, in the gradual thinning of noise into something more manageable. Nuala had a second drink, then a third, spaced enough that she felt only the soft edges of them. She and Céleste talked the way they always talked — easily, without effort, the conversation finding its own level. Nuala was careful in her glances, measuring the length of each with precision accumulated over the years.
His group had been four. Then three. Now two, the other one a woman who kept checking her phone with the distracted air of someone about to leave.
Once he laughed at something and she heard it without meaning to, and thought: yes, that's the laugh. The same one she'd noticed in the café, a half-beat behind everyone else's, like he'd actually considered whether it was funny first.
He glanced over. She didn't look away in time.
He didn't make anything of it. Just held it for a second, easy, and then went back to his conversation.
The woman with the phone left.
He was alone.

 
Céleste went to the bathroom and he came over. Not immediately — and then he was just there, a stool between them.
It was late enough that neither of them had anything left — no energy, no will, no interest in making anyone comfortable.
*You were in Brennan's*, he said. *A couple of weeks ago. Tuesday morning, I think*.
She had been. She said so.
*I wasn't sure, he said. You look different tonight.*
She waited.
*Not different. More—* He stopped. Smiled at himself. *Sorry. That came out wrong.*
*It didn't*, she said. And meant it.
*Are you good friends with them?* she asked. *The people you were with.*
He considered it a moment longer than she expected.
*Not really,* he said. *We work together.*
She nodded. Said nothing. Let him hear what she'd actually asked.
*That obvious?* he said.
*No,* she said. Which was almost true.
Céleste came back from the bathroom and stopped just behind her shoulder. Nuala felt her there before she saw her — the particular stillness of someone who has walked into something and is deciding how to handle it.
She turned. Céleste's expression was neutral in the way that meant the opposite.
Nuala looked at him from the corner of her eye, holding the glass in her hand. He didn't shift. Didn't recalibrate. She set the glass down.
*Oh,* Celeste said, looking past Nuala toward the far end of the bar. I*s that Sorcha? God, I haven't seen her in — I'm just going to say hello*. A hand on Nuala's arm, brief, warm. The look that went with it said something else entirely.
She was gone before Nuala could respond.

 
She bought herself another drink. He stayed.
She leaned in to be heard over the noise.
*Do you always watch people*, she asked, *or is that just tonight?*
He looked at her for a moment. Really looked.
*Both,* he said. *You?*
*Always,* she said. The half-smile already there, one eyebrow slightly raised.
He smiled — not the easy professional one she'd catalogued before. Something quieter.
She didn't let herself think. Or tried not to — the what-ifs arriving anyway, uninvited: what if he didn't like her what if someone found out what if she was being taken advantage of he was so much younger what if what if.
Don't show it. Stay focused. But keep thinking, never stop thinking.
She reached for her glass.
He was still there, leaning on the bar with both arms, looking at his drink. He turned his head toward her — just slightly — and said something about the air being stifling. She murmured something back. Could have been yes, could have been no, could have been whatever he wanted to make of it.
But she followed him as he moved toward the door.

 
The alley ran along the side of the building, a loose respite from the wind that started picking up. They stood in it. Their breath showed slightly in the cold. She was aware of the distance between them in the way you become aware of something only when it starts to change.
She didn't know how it happened exactly. A step. A pause that went a beat too long. The cold, maybe, pulling them closer by degrees until close became something else.
He kissed her, or she kissed him — the sequence blurred almost immediately, which felt right. His mouth was warm and unhurried. A good kisser, she thought. And the kiss got better. He placed both hands around her face, deepening it.
And her thoughts surfaced. Like a scale — the deeper the kiss, the closer fear came to the surface. The better it is, the better he is, the more dangerous this thing is.
The emergency shutdown started: her lips slightly less open, her tongue less present, her body pressed against his a fraction less. Outside: still. Inside: everything at once, too loud to name.
He felt it. She knew he felt it because he didn't push. Just stayed, close, his forehead almost against hers. She was glad he felt it. His thumb moved from her nose, under her eye, along the edge of her face. Like he was wiping away a tear. Her alarm got louder.
*You okay?* he said.
*Yes,* she said.
They stood there a moment longer.
She was still quiet, thinking: I'll say yes if he tries again. He smiled — the quiet one, not the easy one — and said nothing.

How difficult for you is to write a POV for a character not based on your personal experience?
What do you base your writing on in that case?

Nothing can beat the feeling of publishing for the first time.
The story [Freeze] might not get the most likes or shares, but for me it is the whole world

She'd only gone in because it was new. 
Nuala had a weakness for new places in the first weeks before they found their rhythm — before familiarity set in on both sides. She liked that window. The anonymity of it. It wouldn't last.
He was the one who took her order the first time. Funny, easy with it, the kind of person who made everyone feel like the most recent arrival at a party they were already enjoying. Honey-coloured hair, blue eyes. A genuine smile. She noticed the way you notice a fine face. Thought, briefly, that he was a ride. That was all.
She went back.
She liked him. It used to be so easy — the flirting, the back and forth. She knew how that worked. Enjoyed a game. Up to a point, of course.
She saw herself in other women now. In those women. The ones in films, in cafés, across rooms. The slightly too-careful laugh. The trying. Over tipping for a cup of coffee. She had no intention of being that woman.
The second time he wasn't her waiter. She noticed. The third time he was, and somewhere between ordering and leaving the thought came again — briefly, without landing anywhere. Still a ride. She smiled at him.
She left it there.
Except.
Except she was fifty-three now, and for the better part of two years the same inventory had been running on a loop she couldn't switch off — and couldn't quite face head-on either, so it ran in the background instead, surfacing at odd moments. On the Tube. In the middle of conversations. At three in the morning.
The job paid the bills. She’d stopped striving for something else long ago. The pattern of taking what came and making the best of it, which she'd always called pragmatism and was only now considering might have been fear with better PR. She wasintelligent, learnt to read the room and people — and people had always opened up to her easily, which she preferred anyway.She was pretty enough that doors used to open before she'd knocked, which had made it easy, for a long time, not to knock very hard. She should’ve used her looks more.
The other part was harder. She'd liked sex — genuinely, not as performance, not always. She knew her body, knew what got her off. She knew how to get others off. She did not know what she was capable of, what were her limits and what would bring her true pleasure. Said yes sometimes because it was easier than the conversation that would follow a no, but not always that either. Said yes sometimes to reckless, casual sex, because it just might happen that the other person would stop her and tell her she’s better than that. She'd have called herself adventurous, if asked. Open. And yet. There was always a point, some invisible line she'd never been able to locate in advance, where something in her seized and she'd find herself on the other side of it — composed, unreachable, the moment gone. The men who'd noticed had mostly said nothing. The ones who had said something hadn't lasted long.
What did she want? She wasn’t sure exactly, but longing, the fire she could feel inside her must’ve meant something. But she was fifty-three, and the world was quieter around her. And underneath that — quieter still — she would sometimes build worlds inside herself, ones full of right moments, right looks and taken opportunities.

 
She liked Celeste, former model, wife and mother of one. Easy to talk to, not prying too much into Nuala’s motives or reactions. Bar after the theatre was a given, and in all honesty, that was sometimes the best part of the evening.
They walked in together. The room responded to Céleste theusual way when a pretty thing is on display. For Nuala, it meant she had enough time to do the usual inventory: head high, back straight, careful walk, don’t look around, relax the face. Nobody would have known her toes were curled tight inside her heels.
She noticed him before she'd taken the first sip. He was a few stools down, part of the group clearly celebrating something. She noticed him the way she'd noticed him in the café: a fine face, the kind of easy warmth that worked on everyone. She looked and then stopped looking. Filed it.
The evening moved the way evenings do — in rounds, in small migrations, in the gradual thinning of noise into something more manageable. Nuala had a second drink, then a third, spaced enough that she felt only the soft edges of them. She and Céleste talked the way they always talked — easily, without effort, the conversation finding its own level. Nuala was careful in her glances, measuring the length of each with precision accumulated over the years.
His group had been four. Then three. Now two, the other one a woman who kept checking her phone with the distracted air of someone about to leave.
Once he laughed at something and she heard it without meaning to, and thought: yes, that's the laugh. The same one she'd noticed in the café, a half-beat behind everyone else's, like he'd actually considered whether it was funny first.
He glanced over. She didn't look away in time.
He didn't make anything of it. Just held it for a second, easy, and then went back to his conversation.
The woman with the phone left.
He was alone.

 
Céleste went to the bathroom and he came over. Not immediately — and then he was just there, a stool between them.
It was late enough that neither of them had anything left — no energy, no will, no interest in making anyone comfortable.
You were in Brennan's, he said. A couple of weeks ago. Tuesday morning, I think.
She had been. She said so.
I wasn't sure, he said. You look different tonight.
She waited.
Not different. More— He stopped. Smiled at himself. Sorry. That came out wrong.
It didn't, she said. And meant it.
Are you good friends with them? she asked. The people you were with.
He considered it a moment longer than she expected.
Not really, he said. We work together.
She nodded. Said nothing. Let him hear what she'd actually asked.
That obvious? he said.
No, she said. Which was almost true.
Céleste came back from the bathroom and stopped just behind her shoulder. Nuala felt her there before she saw her — the particular stillness of someone who has walked into something and is deciding how to handle it.
She turned. Céleste's expression was neutral in the way that meant the opposite.
Nuala looked at him from the corner of her eye, holding the glass in her hand. He didn't shift. Didn't recalibrate. She set the glass down.
Oh, Celeste said, looking past Nuala toward the far end of the bar. Is that Sorcha? God, I haven't seen her in — I'm just going to say hello. A hand on Nuala's arm, brief, warm. The look that went with it said something else entirely.
She was gone before Nuala could respond.

 
She bought herself another drink. He stayed.
She leaned in to be heard over the noise.
Do you always watch people, she asked, or is that just tonight?
He looked at her for a moment. Really looked.
Both, he said. You?
Always, she said. The half-smile already there, one eyebrow slightly raised.
He smiled — not the easy professional one she'd catalogued before. Something quieter.
She didn't let herself think. Or tried not to — the what-ifs arriving anyway, uninvited: what if he didn't like her what if someone found out what if she was being taken advantage of he was so much younger what if what if.
Don't show it. Stay focused. But keep thinking, never stop thinking.
She reached for her glass.
He was still there, leaning on the bar with both arms, looking at his drink. He turned his head toward her — just slightly — and said something about the air being stifling. She murmured something back. Could have been yes, could have been no, could have been whatever he wanted to make of it.
But she followed him as he moved toward the door.

 
The alley ran along the side of the building, a loose respite from the wind that started picking up. They stood in it. Their breath showed slightly in the cold. She was aware of the distance between them in the way you become aware of something only when it starts to change.
She didn't know how it happened exactly. A step. A pause that went a beat too long. The cold, maybe, pulling them closer by degrees until close became something else.
He kissed her, or she kissed him — the sequence blurred almost immediately, which felt right. His mouth was warm and unhurried. A good kisser, she thought. And the kiss got better. He placed both hands around her face, deepening it.
And her thoughts surfaced. Like a scale — the deeper the kiss, the closer fear came to the surface. The better it is, the better he is, the more dangerous this thing is.
The emergency shutdown started: her lips slightly less open, her tongue less present, her body pressed against his a fraction less. Outside: still. Inside: everything at once, too loud to name.
He felt it. She knew he felt it because he didn't push. Just stayed, close, his forehead almost against hers. She was glad he felt it. His thumb moved from her nose, under her eye, along the edge of her face. Like he was wiping away a tear. Her alarm got louder.
You okay? he said.
Yes, she said.
They stood there a moment longer.
She was still quiet, thinking: I'll say yes if he tries again. He smiled — the quiet one, not the easy one — and said nothing.