Chopin’s Waltz No. 6 trickled from the speakers and dripped into my ears as I pulled the pink tights over my clean-shaven legs. I wasn’t a ballerina until I put on the tights. Dressing the part gets me into the mood, gets my heart dancing, gets my mind ready. Despite the myth that dancing takes no thought, I find my mind exhausted by the end of a long practice. Toes pointed, hips square, shoulders over hips, first and fifth and pique, plie, arabesque. Remember your French, know your body.
I pulled the leotard over my body like skin. I was about to audition for a classical ballet company. Everything had to be perfect. Every piece had to be just so. I was patting my skin down with foundation for the stage lights when I remembered the purple stain he left on my skin. It still hurt to touch, but I covered it well. Nothing was going to hold me back.
The squeak of the bedroom door startled me. He leaned against the frame with his arms crossed. I waited for him to speak. After a few awkward seconds he said, “You’re still going?”
“Well, of course. Why not?”
“We talked about this.”
No, you yelled while you backed me into a corner. I started stuffing my shoes and makeup into my bag without acknowledging him. I slung it over my shoulder. He stood square in the doorway, keeping me inside.
“You don’t love me?” His voice was flat.
“You know I do.” I felt my eyes fall to the floor though I had reserved to harden my heart today. He caught my moment of vulnerability when he took my chin between his thumb and forefinger. Without another thought he tossed my head to the side just like he would have tossed a dirty tissue from his hand.
“You look like a slut. You’re probably auditioning to be some stripper whore. Put some pants on. You’re disgusting.”
He waited for me to back down, but I refused. I faced him, met his eyes, waited for him to speak. When he took a breath, I hooked him with a punch to the diaphragm. He backed out of the doorway as I shoved past him.
Things seemed to slow down as I processed what I had just done. How could I come home after this? I imagined that if he let me back in, I would never leave again. He may not even let me leave the bedroom. I pictured myself having to sneak out the window after he left for work on third shift.
Yet my mind was confused. My head was screwed up. I wasn’t sure he could or would ever really do that. He loved me. He told me those three words eventually every day. If he loves me, why do I treat him this way? Why can’t I love him in return?
I felt a grip close around my wrist. I can’t do anything right. He pulled in one swift motion, and my head bounced on the carpet when I fell. His arm swung back like a terrible baseball bat and came across my cheekbone. I thought of the audition. Of how I couldn’t cover up that bruise for it. I thought of how I would not be going now. He stood over me, nudging the toe of his boot into the corner of my neck and shoulder.
“I have never loved you,” he said.
A nocturne from Chopin cried from the bedroom, mirroring my heart but not my intentions.