I Left My Heart in Moscow but My Love Waits in Pittsburgh

“Can we stay like this forever?” I mumbled, my head buried in his shoulder.

“Forever is a long time.”

“Not long enough.”

“Where do we go from here?” Jordan placed a kiss on the top of my head and then rested his chin there.

“Up,” In that moment, I never felt more content. More at peace, “I doubt we could go anywhere but up from here.”

“That sounds nice,” His voice sounded dreamy and soft.

And then the silence enveloped us. It was a comfortable silence, between two people who didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with useless words, trying to prove ourselves to each other.



“Can I help you?”

Max had been standing outside of Sveta’s dressing room for what felt like an eternity.

Jesus, what could they be doing in there?

Then he chuckled and smirked, maybe that.

“Excuse me, can I help you? Are you lost or something?” This time he was tapped on the shoulder.

The Canadian turned around to see a short, dark-haired, dark-eyed ballerina in front of him.

All evidence of the performance scrubbed and stowed away. Her wet hair pulled into a ponytail and only her “Property of Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre” sweatshirt and the heavy black duffel bag with embroidered pointe shoots that sagged her shoulder hinted at her possible profession.

“No I’m just waiting on a friend,” He jerked his thumb towards the dressing room. “Do I know you?”

She shook her head. Her eyes full of questions as she studied his face, “No I don’t think so…”

He stared at her face. She looked so familiar. The brown eyes. Except to consider them just brown would be an injustice to the fire and passion that burned behind them. They reminded him of hot chocolate and cinnamon. Warm, cozy, spicy. "You’re the girl that fell!” Max exclaimed as he placed the face. It had been difficult. Without the stage makeup, her face looked completely different. Without the stark highlights and dark contouring, she looked like a human, a flesh and blood and real woman. Not a caricature of feminine beauty.

“You’re a dick,” she spat and turned on her heel.

“Wait!” He grabbed her wrist, but almost immediately let go. It was like getting hit by a lightning bolt. An intense shock that seemed to overwhelm all his senses. It made his heartbeat double in speed. “I didn’t mean it like that.” He wondered if she felt it too.

Alicia whipped around and wrenched her wrist out of his grasp. She stood with her hand on a cocked hip, “Oh yeah? How did you mean it?”

“I just- I thought you were amazing out there, despite the fall,” Max said confidently, before lowering his voice to soft whisper, “But your eyes seemed so sad after you fell, like you lost all hope.”

“You would be pretty upset too if you fell on your ass in front of a sold out crowd, on the first performance of the season, when this was your only shot to move out of the background.”

“I guess I would,” He paused, trying to find the right words. He thought of his goal drought, the broken foot, the torn labrum, “But if you love ballet as much as I think you do, then this won’t be your only shot.”

“It’s not me that’s the problem. I love ballet. It’s ballet that doesn’t love me back.”

“Another tip. Stop making excuses. You are the master of your destiny. If you want something bad enough and work hard enough, it’ll happen.”

You don’t know my life! She wanted to spit back at him but something in his face. The openness, the vulnerability and the earnest honesty of his expression, “How can you be so sure?”

“You really don’t know who I am?” He asked with a sly smirk.



“So, how do you think I did?” Anna uncoiled the bun on the top of her head. Smooth, blonde waves tumbled down her back. A flick of comb and a deep side part appeared, a lock of hair curled over her left eye.

“Marvelous. Simply marvelous, darling,” Anna’s mother cooed as she clasped a pearl necklace around Anna’s neck.

“Was Kevin here today? I’m tired of sharing a dressing room with four other girls,” Anna pouted as she glared at the row of vanities, each meticulously organized by other corps girls. This was not a room for a prima ballerina. She studied her face in the mirror. She had removed most of her stage makeup. Leaving on the heavy base which made her skin look like porcelain, the elongated flicks of eyeliner that made her green eyes cat-like and seductive and the velvet red lips that had been lined and filled to appear fuller and more sensuous.

“No, not tonight, but I think he’ll be coming for the Sunday show,” Adelaide saw so much of herself in her sweet daughter and more. Adelaide had danced in her younger days as well. She danced for Balanchine once¸ in the 80s when his eyes, ears, body and mind were failing him. At least that’s what Adelaide’s parents had said when he didn’t pick her to join the esteemed ranks of the New York City Ballet. And that’s what Adelaide said when others asked of her extremely short tenure at NYCB.

She remembered it like yesterday.



Having just graduated, it was Adelaide's first professional company class as a member of the Company. She was no longer relegated to the back, with the other students and apprentices. She was in the middle of the commotion. Well not quite the middle. Mr. B was the middle of the commotion. He was the center of their world. He was the reason why she was wearing an ensemble that looked more lingerie than dancewear. Lace tights with the feet ripped off, sheer bodysuit and tiny shorts.

Mr. B. was looking for someone new to replace his sweet Aliya. Aliya Kapranova, who rebuffed his flirtations and proposals of marriage, ran away with her rumored lover Baryshnikov to the American Ballet Theatre.

Adelaide stood tall and proud as she went through the exercises. Just like how Mr. B. liked them. But she was blonde and Mr. B. preferred brunettes. But what was something as trivial as hair color, when you had perfect extension and technique?

Mr. B. began to walk around the room, watching each dancer with an intensity that disturbed the young “Addie” as she was called then, despite being insistent on being called Adelaide since her graduation.

Addie was so juvenile.

She swept into a high arabesque, showing off the stretched position that Mr. B. loved so much. Yes hair color is such a trivial thing, when you had talent like she did.

Mr. B tapped a petite girl on the shoulder and she stopped mid-battement and frowned and left the room. She would not be his new muse.

He tapped a taller girl this time, taller than Adelaide that’s for sure. And she left. He did not see a princess in her.

He tapped another girl.

And another.

And another.

Until it was only Adelaide and another principle dancer. Adelaide recognized the other dancer. Everyone did. Her face or, well, her body was up in lights above the box office at Lincoln Center. Rumor had it was that Mr. B. was having a love affair with her.

Mr. B. clapped and spoke for the first time. His voice was weak with age and cigarette smoke. “Diamonds,” was all he said and he clapped again, signaling us to the center of the floor. He looked at the dark haired ballerina and said “Do Diamonds. For me.”

Diamonds. The last piece he ever made for his sweet Suzanne Farrell and the piece that made Aliya a star. Diamonds was his homage to the Imperial Russian Ballet of his childhood and his homage to the two loves that he could never have. Suzi and Alyenka.

The pianist’s hands ghosted over the keys, teasing out the delicate melody. This was surely a test. Did he want them to perform like Suzanne or like Aliya? Did he want them to do something that reminded him of such a painful time that it inspired a vengeful streak in him? Did he want them to do a new interpretation?

The dark haired dancer launched into the tiny delicate steps connecting to the arabesque and then into the deep penchees that Suzanne had made famous and had the audience falling to their knees in front of Aliya.

I can get my leg higher than that.

Then she flew into the sissone and jete, landing with a step above a whisper.

I can land quieter than that.

Then the pirouettes. A triple. Impressive.

I can turn better than that.

And there lies the true tragedy of this story. While Adelaide could kick higher, land softer, turn more, she did not notice the way Darci Kistler danced Diamonds. She danced it with a strength and fragility that differentiated her from Suzi and Alyenka. When Suzi danced Diamonds, she danced like an angel. When Alyenka danced Diamonds, she danced like a princess. When Darci danced Diamonds, she danced with the clarity and the strength and the fragility of a teardrop. Perhaps even more tragic is that Adelaide’s daughter would follow the same path.

After Darci danced, Mr. B. did not even want to see Adelaide dance. His mind was made up but he let her dance anyway. After the first few bars, he knew she didn’t have it. She would be a lovely swan or a shade but she would never be a princess or an angel or a teardrop. He turned around and faced Darci, taking her hand in his. Letting Adelaide dance the rest of the variation to his back while he whispered sweet words to his new alabaster princess.



She looked at the mirror and found matching green eyes. Yes her daughter was like her and more. More turn out, more technique, more talent. “Come sweetheart, Daddy booked a room at the The Incline for us to celebrate.”