Deep pink flowers — gradations of pink with smooth green leaves. Delicate, delicate petals floating serenely in a waterfall. Ballet. Dancers in chiffon twirling waltzing across a meadow. The composer is happy — the dancers are swirling in perfect time to his music. It’s spring and he’s in love with a little ballerina who is in the ensemble. Not the lead ballerina — that would be such a cliché. But the little ballerina with black hair in coils about her ears. He loves her — only he doesn’t know her name. Now that he is a big success — for surely having composed this music for this ballet he will be rich and famous as soon as they premiere — he should have the courage to speak to her, to ask her name, to tell her he loves her.
     The little ballerina doesn’t like the music. “Difficult to dance to” she told her roommate. But that’s not really it. Here it is her first performance with the Corps du Royaume — what she’s always dreamed of — and she wanted it all perfect. She wanted to love the music, love the costumes, love the different dances, love how she danced. Instead the costume made her look like a tube of cheap lipstick, the dances were uninspired, she asked from the new steps, and the music reminded her of flat ginger ale.