“Wh…who are you?” I rubbed my eyes, sure I was hallucinating.
“I’m your guardian angel,” he replied, the answer coming from all around like he was on surround sound. It was a wonderful, velvety voice.
“My…my what?”
“You’re freezing out here, Maximilian. You are going to die. I’ve been sent to tell you.”
“But but… the shelters are full! There aren’t any more auditions for at least another week, and I…I can’t go back to Indiana like this,” I choke.
The angel gazes down at me, no emotion on his perfect face. He is just floating there, still. “Go to Julliard.”
“What? I can’t afford Julliard!”
He shakes his head. “No, go to Julliard, the theater. There’s a door in the back. The janitor forgot to lock it and the heat was just turned off. You’ll be warm enough until morning when it turns on again at 6. Stay until 8, don’t leave a minute sooner or a minute later.”
I look around, wondering if I’m in fact already dead or suffering some sort of lack of oxygen trip in the process of becoming a popsicle. “Are you…are you serious? You want me to sleep in Julliard’s theater? You’re sure? I can’t afford to be arr-”
“Go Maximilian. Go. It is your destiny.”
“My what now.”
“Take my shoes, off my feet.” He looks at me expectantly.
“Um.” His feet are just above my head. “Ok, if this is what you want.” I reach up with trembling, gloved hands and slide the white slippers off his stocking clad feet. They’re warm. His toes are still flawlessly pointed. His legs are gorgeous; I can’t resist running my palm up his calf. The angel is still looking at me but he does not react. Embarrassed, I retract my hand and tuck the shoes into my coat. “Thank you…for the shoes, I mean. What should I do with them?”
“Dance,” he said matter of factly. “It will be known when you will need them. Good-bye Maximilian.” Before I could open my mouth to protest he was gone. I ran around the alley looking for him, but he was gone. Cold seeped into my bones. What the hell was that? I felt something warm against my chest and peered into my coat. There they were… snow white ballet slippers. No tag, no makers mark. No size.
I followed the angel’s instructions and went toward Julliard. One of the trains wasn’t running at the right stop, so I had to walk an extra twelve blocks to get there. I was shocked when I found the door, just like I was told. I slept on a pile of sandbags as a mattress. The shoes kept their warmth the entire night and I had the best sleep in weeks.
The next morning, at 8 am sharp, I was caught by a teacher looking for a misplaced sweater. That meeting would change my ballet career forever….
(to be continued, maybe :3)
Last late night ballet reblog session of 2013 and it’s a beaut! We’re starting off with this gorgeous specimen.
emeritusblog:
Chris Rodgers-Wilson
Australian Ballet
photography Paul Scala
