(escapril, day 11: not from your perspective)

The girl onstage has a clear, high voice.

She hits every note in the aria with the kind of ease that can only be purchased.

She cries on command and has somehow meshed nine hours ballet rehearsals with college courses and a 4.0 and maybe a bit of violin here and there and oh-also-did-you-know-she-volunteers?

She wants it. She wants it like she wants to breathe, like she wants to eat.

In plie, the slant of her toe is centimeters away from perfection. I see her seeing it more than I see it for myself.

She won’t cry or get emotional about a mistake.

It’s just something to catalogue away and never repeat.

We see plenty of her.

Slender, lean muscle, but not too much. We don’t want any bulkiness.

Hair in between brown and blonde allows for more roles.

Long, elegant ballet legs and perfectly pointed toes, always encased in peach pink stockings.

Stiff toes and blackening bruises and bent wood are all stuffed together under pale satin.

Laced to perfection.

A little frayed around the edges.

She leaves with a smile and a practiced thank you.

I wonder if she’s the type for a gift basket or just a handwritten note.

Maybe it’s both.

Whether her mother is in the waiting room, or sitting by her phone at home, I don’t know.

But I know she waits somewhere nearby. Concerned.

I crack my neck and scratch at a bug bite on my shin.
I’m sorry, I type, We’ve found someone else.