I work through the movements I used to flow through as easily as water drifts in the ocean. But now I feel like ice, stiff and cold. The strain in my body makes itself known through the resounding craaaaack that sounds every time I arch into a penché, ringing louder in my ear than the ticking of the clock hanging on the wall. Still, I continue, forcing myself into a soutenu as my toes protest at the weight I place on them.
Where my feet once drew perfect lines across the stage, they now paint sloppily across its surface and I stop, looking back at the mess I’ve made. The empty seats of the performance hall swim before my eyes, and I try to picture a full audience. But I can’t. Because no one will ever come watch me perform again. My time has passed, leaving me a faded star with nothing but a pretty name. Sighing the frustration away, I make my way over to a coffee stand and order my usual hot coffee with peppermint. As I reach out to grab my drink, someone else – one of the younger ballerinas- rushes past me to grab her drink, spilling mine in her hurry. The coffee drips over my leotard, burning my right leg, a taunt, a stain.
