The Dancers
Written for Erin.
In the ballet, they dance between one another, turning on their toes so close they almost touch, and there's a brush of their hair, the faintest feeling of the rush of air past their hands, and the meeting of their eyes. Their eyes always meet, above all else. They watch each other as they're dancing, as they're turning, as they're almost-touching.
Christine sings to herself secretly between performances, brushing her hair with the brown brush that's really Meg's. Meg practises her dancing in the ballet girls' closet, spinning around and around, her hands clasped on her heart the way she's been taught.
On stage, they smile at one another, making it part of their performance, making it part of their dance. They bow and dip, they rise and fall in their little pointe shoes made for their little feet. After performances, they pretend to help each other undress and give each other sweet shy kisses, giggling and chattering like the other girls.
Meg talks about how she'll never leave Christine, about how she'll never let anything frighten her (she is older, so she's permitted to make this sort of chivalrous claim). Christine lays her head on Meg's breast, and when someone asks, she's missing her father, and Meg is comforting her--kind Meg is helping her to chase away the sad memories.
They're a fine pair of dancers, and a sweet pair of lovers. Their secrets are beautiful as their open movements across the stage of the Opera Populaire.
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