Her feet cry red tears of passion and pain. Her muscles tremble in agony. Her back arches, her fingers drift through the air. A slender neck, proudly displaying her focused features. Long hair, primly observing from a loosening knot on her head.
It makes her feet bleed, but still she does not stop. She slips her bandaged foot back into the shoe and ties it tightly. She tests herself lightly. A small hop. It hurts, but she barely winces. Already her eyes are drawn to the bar, to the open floor, and her ears are listening for the beat. The rhythm of waves against strong cliff walls.
She stretches lightly again. Tendu. Petit battement. Grand battement.
Then she is flowing across the floor like an ocean swell. Her legs reach forward, her hair foams. Momentarily she descends, only to push off again, higher than before. She grows as her arms extend. At last she crashes onto the beach. Her feet hiss across the sand.
Then she retreats, and all that is left is a damp imprint of her momentary presence. A small displacement of sand.
Already she has returned to the sea. And she once again begins her journey to the shore.
I don’t regret my choice, but sometimes I do miss ballet. Or just dancing in general.