Status: Active
Untitled
IV
I had been dancing six days a week back then— I was twelve, on the pre-professional track, and had met a good majority of patrons at ABT, American Ballet Theatre and Julliard staff. I was pleasant, yet quiet and people liked talking my ear off. I scarcely forgot a word that was said. A fly on the wall, dressed up as one of them. All that was needed was someone to ask, and I could feed them information I came across in simple passing. I came across a lot.
It had been three years since I accidently met Istanbul. Since then, we’d been communicating constantly, writing letters so frequently I often sent one off in the morning and received two in the evening. I had the letters delivered to our old house, number 26. A man that worked at a bank lived there, and although he scared me—what with his eerie satellite perched in the middle of the lawn and fish mailbox— I never really got a chance to see him and substantiate the fear with the man in the flesh. I would ride my bike to his house after ballet, take my letters, and leave.
We wrote about the mundane frailties of our lives. I would always try to make my run of the mill life seem more enchanting—not just school, prose and pointé shoes—whereas he upheld a bleak attitude concerning his rather privileged life—boarding school, debutante balls, secret societies. I understood him, I think, even back then. I think that’s why he first requested me on his service. It was a dangerous move, involving someone so happily detached, but he took me in, my planet floating in orbit, and didn’t let go.
We revolved around each other for those few years— train stations, subway platforms, an occasional helicopter or commercial airline— embarking throughout the solar system without once stopping to marvel at the stars. We were so caught up in the light and life of each other. Even as the world kept on turning, sending asteroids and fiery belts our way, willing us apart. We wouldn’t accept defeat. We treated each day as a mission and each mission as a test of our strength as a couple. We had downright cataclysmic strength, too— until he had to take a term of leave, and I was kept on his missions. But I couldn’t do it alone. This is how Moscow became involved.
It had been three years since I accidently met Istanbul. Since then, we’d been communicating constantly, writing letters so frequently I often sent one off in the morning and received two in the evening. I had the letters delivered to our old house, number 26. A man that worked at a bank lived there, and although he scared me—what with his eerie satellite perched in the middle of the lawn and fish mailbox— I never really got a chance to see him and substantiate the fear with the man in the flesh. I would ride my bike to his house after ballet, take my letters, and leave.
We wrote about the mundane frailties of our lives. I would always try to make my run of the mill life seem more enchanting—not just school, prose and pointé shoes—whereas he upheld a bleak attitude concerning his rather privileged life—boarding school, debutante balls, secret societies. I understood him, I think, even back then. I think that’s why he first requested me on his service. It was a dangerous move, involving someone so happily detached, but he took me in, my planet floating in orbit, and didn’t let go.
We revolved around each other for those few years— train stations, subway platforms, an occasional helicopter or commercial airline— embarking throughout the solar system without once stopping to marvel at the stars. We were so caught up in the light and life of each other. Even as the world kept on turning, sending asteroids and fiery belts our way, willing us apart. We wouldn’t accept defeat. We treated each day as a mission and each mission as a test of our strength as a couple. We had downright cataclysmic strength, too— until he had to take a term of leave, and I was kept on his missions. But I couldn’t do it alone. This is how Moscow became involved.