“We don’t know for sure, but the twins are so different, aren’t they? On the other hand, they can be, especially if they’re not identical, which we know. They’re fraternal. But did you see the way Mick went straight to Levi and Mitch went to Wendi?”
“I didn’t notice. I was too busy noticing all of the differences between them.” I adjusted myself, imagining the gladiator wars going on inside of my balls. “Do you think mine are fighting now? It has to be cramped quarters.”
“Not too cramped,” she muttered. “Instead of all-out war, perhaps they prepare for the race? Train, instead of battling it out before the real journey?”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “That makes more sense. Save the dirty war for the actual race. Mine are smart warriors. Brawn is only half the battle, ah?”
“God, Brando!” She exploded with laughter, covering her face. I could smell the chocolate on her breath from the suckers we had. “Are we really having this conversation?”
“You brought it up. With the—hero super, whatever the fuck that was. Frankly, I don’t see how ‘hero’ and ‘super’ can even be included in the description of what that is or means.”
“Heteropaternalsuperfecundation,” she corrected, her laughter lingering.
I put my arm around her neck, pulling her toward my chest. I kissed her head, thankful for our traditional love. Just her and I—and my sperm the only ones swimming around in her womb.
We strolled with my arm around her neck until we came to the ballet studio. All of the lights had been turned out, but the glow of the streetlight highlighted the framed picture of her that hung on the wall.
It was taken not long before she left for Paris, propaganda for the French ballet. She was draped in sheer crimson that fanned out behind her in waves, her head thrown back, arms in the same direction, feeten pointe—the picture caught her in motion.
“I go hollow—” I mimicked the frantic pulse of my heart with a hand over the spot “—every time I see that picture.”
“You do?”
I nodded, not able to remove my gaze. “I used to pass by just to see it. It reminded me of all I had lost. I’d stand here, close my eyes, and time would rewind.” And twist my heart and soul in a crushing vise grip.
“You were punishing yourself.”
“Yeah.”
She snuggled closer, and the smell of her (my) jacket and her perfume clung to the crisp night air—leather with a hint of candied rose. We had changed in a hurry after Violet had left for the hospital, not wanting to arrive in costume, since we had no idea how long it was going to take.
“Let’s go in,” she whispered.
Our fingers stayed entwined as I opened the door. I went to switch the light on, but Scarlett stopped me.
“No, leave it. It’s too harsh for this time of the night.”
I locked the door behind us, searched the place for any lurkers, and then met her in the main room.
It had been years since either of us had stepped foot inside of the studio. The walls were rose pink set off by soft gray accents. Floors were made of light wood, scuffed by years of dance slippers. Mirrors lined the walls; the soft glow from the streetlight touched the reflective glass, echoing its silent journey around the room.
Her reflection, highlighted by the light, studied the old place. Her feet, in pointed black flats that tied just below her ankle-length jeans in silk ribbons, hardly seemed to touch the floor.
“It still smells like popcorn in here,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“Matistill keeps the old machine in the backroom. The kids seem to like it.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.” She grinned. “A treat.”
“After you had run after Elliott—the night in the snow—I could smell it on you. And roses. The smell is home to me.”
“The Christmas party,” she said, a wistful tone to her voice. “Fate had plans.”
I nodded. “Now I’m hungry for popcorn. Years later.”
She laughed, real low. “We can make some. You own the place.”
