She lowered herself from her en pointe position and hurried across the room, humorously noting that even while not dancing, she ran like a dancer—toe to heel. She reached for her bag that she'd slung against the wall with her vegan leather jacket and pulled her phone out. She had a text message from Heath.
"Hey. I know you're at the studio tonight but I was wondering if I could come by later on when you're home. I've got some clients for a couple hours so I'm not sure exactly when I can leave, but I wanted to see you."
A warm fluttery feeling filled her lower belly as she read the message. She checked the time; it was a quarter after six.
"Sure," she replied, her thumbs moving furiously. "That sounds great. I'll be home around eight tonight."
"I'll let you know when I'm on my way," he responded. "See you soon."
Drew clutched the phone for a moment before replacing it in her bag. She bit her lip as a smile spread over her face. Her desire to work on her dance immediately went away, as she suddenly wanted to do nothing else but go home and primp herself, but she shook the thought quickly and focused on what she was here to do. The dance wouldn't perfect itself.
She went through it once to go through all of the choreography she'd created, piecing it together. She made some immediate changes as she'd blundered some of the counts of her dance against the music, making the corrections quickly as the solutions came to her. Once the initial round of errors was ironed out, she went over the dance again, not full-out, envisioning the movements in her mind as well as watching them reflected back at her. Then, she did the entire dance full out in her pointe shoes, and then again full-out in her dance footies. After that, she hesitated, torn. She loved dancing en pointe, had always loved it, and in fact had shown such dedication and skill in her early years as a dancer that she had begun training en pointe at the age of nine, as opposed to twelve like many girls. But somehow, the dance became more emotionally raw, more visceral, in the casual footies. They were like flesh-toned fingerless gloves for her feet, with holes to separate each toe and covering just the ball of her foot. They gave her the appearance of dancing barefoot, and for the song she'd chosen and the emotion of her movements as translated through the emotion of the song, she knew she'd have to use the footies for her performance.
As she caught her breath, sweating, her hands on her hips, she began to wonder exactly what else she would wear for her performance. She hadn't performed in such an incredibly long time—not since just after graduating college when she'd worked with a fledgling dance company in New York. Although she had double-majored in dance and English, she hadn't been able to do much with either degree and simply couldn't make enough to support herself with the company, so she'd begun working full time in her family's café. Previously, for any performance she'd had, she'd ordered her costumes out of a ridiculously priced costume catalog. Even something simple could cost a hundred dollars or more. That was simply out of the question. She'd have to give it some thought, and she'd have to decide on something soon. The showcase was a few weeks away.
She went over the dance three more time, trying to envision what sort of costume would best complement the song and the dance. She suddenly decided that the simpler she went, the better. The dance was good; she was proud of it. In fact, she decided that it was the best dance piece she had ever created, and that sudden knowledge and belief flooded through her and filled her with pride. She was baring her soul, baring her wounds, releasing her turmoil.
Baring my wounds.
Drew stared at herself in the mirror, stared into her own warm brown eyes. She watched herself frown. Her eyes slid slower down her reflection, stopping at all the "hot spots" on her body that carried her scars. An idea for a costume captured her mind, and she realized that it was the only costume that she could have ever worn for this song and this dance.
Abruptly, she turned on her heel and crossed the studio. She stepped into her rain boots and slung her jacket on, and headed home to wait for Heath.
***
She'd had enough time to shower and blow-dry her hair and change into clean and comfortable clothing. In fact, she'd had enough time to fall asleep on the couch before she jolted awake at the sound of a dull knock on her door. She shook her head quickly and hopped off her couch, Rocky at her feet, and made her way to the door. She looked through the peephole and saw a black hood obscuring most of a face, but the telltale toothpick jutting out from a pair of sinfully luscious lips was just enough identity for her.
She smiled and unlatched each of her locks and pulled the door open, meeting his eyes right away. She knew he didn't really smile much in general, and she got an enormous kick out of the fact that he allowed himself to do so around her. Her eyes slid down and saw in surprise that he held a cardboard bowl in each hand, bearing the logo of her favorite yogurt place that was just down the street from the Y. In fact, she had thought about stopping there before heading home, but she had stayed at the studio a little too late and was afraid she'd run out of time, and showering and washing her hair was simply nonnegotiable.