He had gotten me an orchestra seat next to Sleeping Beauty’s mother. I assumed she was related to the prima; the smell of rosewater, the Russian stole. I folded the program in my hands as if attempting origami. He had seated me where I would be able to watch him jump off and disappear into the darkness. He knew that was my favorite part.
And what brings you to the ballet? the mama asked. Her voice made my bones ache. I am married to the Bluebird, I said proudly, but not too proud. She just smiled beneath her painted face, the drawn-on beauty mark.
I will go home with him tonight and draw a bath, I thought as the house lights went down. I will draw a bath and play jazz and take off my clothes and lie on the tile floor. I will insist on soaping him down. He will refuse and instead wrap his tights around my neck from the edge of the tub. While the blue stains my skin I will take a sharp inhale of lavender, hear the high note from the trombone and think, god, I love this man.
Black Swan Green