I feel him move away from me then. And I wait. I stand exactly as he placed me, and I wait. I want to cry. I want to fall to my knees and beg this man to fuck me. The need for him is so primal, so consuming that nothing else matters. No, I'm not scared he'll fuck me. I'm scared he won't. I'm scared that along with whatever other mind games he designs for me, that he will lead me on and tease and torment me, but never let me experience the bliss of his body inside mine.
A few minutes pass like this, then his voice comes out of the speaker again. “Remove the blindfold and go to the center,” he says as if nothing happened. As if he never left his hiding place. And for a moment, some hysterical part of me thinks everything that just happened was all my imagination.
I step away from the barre, shaky and flustered. I feel the warm wetness surging between my legs. He leaves me desperate and wanting, craving. He's all business now. For the rest of our time together, he runs me through my corps choreography for Swan Lake—all except for the parts I dance with Henry.
“That's enough for tonight. Go backstage to the dressing rooms. Take a shower, change back into your street clothes, and come back to the stage.”
I'm a bit surprised by this order. I thought he'd work me until the very last second when he promised to release me, but a hot shower sounds really fucking good right now. I go backstage. He's left me a trail of lights along the hallways, through the dressing rooms, all the way back to the shower.
The bathroom has been newly renovated. So work has been done on this place. Everything is clean white tile and sleek steel lines for the counters. Fresh pale blue towels wait for me on an elegant slatted wooden bench—like something you might see in a spa. There’s lavender soap in the shower.
I look around, half afraid and half hoping he'll come in while I'm undressing, but I know he won't. He won't let me see him. I look up to find a small black camera in the corner of the ceiling, angled down over the shower. Is he sitting in a control room where he can observe the screen I'm on? Is he touching himself?
I swallow hard, but I strip off my dance clothes, free my hair from the bun, and step into the shower. I feel his eyes on me through the camera lens. I half expect his voice to sound through a speaker in here as well with a new list of demands, but it doesn't. The only sound is the spray of the shower. Here I’m allowed both the sweet privacy and relentless torment of my own thoughts.
I clean up quickly, use one of the towels to dry off, and change into my street clothes. My hair is wet and flowing past my shoulders. I put my things back in my dance bag and return to the stage, like a good girl. I don't stand on the black tarp. Not in my street shoes. I would never.
“Homework,” he says over the speaker. “I want you to learn Odette's first solo in Swan Lake as well as the first pas de deux.”
“I need a partner for that.”
“Just learn what you can,” he says. “You're dismissed. Be ready to work on it next week.”
Once again, the lights go out, and I'm left in darkness and confusion.
It's opening night of Swan Lake. Every time I'm on stage with the rest of the corps, I feel his gaze on me. I wonder if I'm paranoid. Maybe I'm losing it. How do I feel him so strongly? How could I possibly know he's out there, watching me? I miss one small step in the second act, and somehow I know he saw it.
It's such a small mistake. No one who doesn't know exactly what the choreography should be would know. And they would have to be watching my feet specifically. But I know he saw. And I'm suddenly seized with an irrational fear about this. I somehow make it through the performance with that mistake gnawing at the back of my mind the entire time.
While we're all out on stage taking our bows, I look up to the box seats. There is a man in the front box closest to the stage on my left. He's by himself, no date. That alone makes me believe it's him. There aren't many men who would attend the ballet alone.
He's tall and broad, in a suit. But that's all I can make out—and only just barely. His face—in fact his whole body—is cast in shadow. I can tell he's standing, clapping with the rest of the audience as Natalie and Frederick come out onto the stage to take their bows, but somehow I know he's not watching them. I feel his gaze on me.
After the performance, the dancers go out for drinks. The principals keep to themselves at their own private table, while those in the corps hang out at the bar. At least half of us drink club soda. We have another performance tomorrow night, so we can't get drunk. And we've got too much adrenaline going to want to dampen it with alcohol. Opening night is the best night in the world.
Henry and Melinda sit on either side of me abuzz with excitement, rambling on about how well they think it went. But I barely hear their words. I leave early, feeling exhausted, but once I get home, I can't sleep. I have to know who was sitting in that box.
On Friday, I go to the box office. My friend Lilah works there, managing ticket sales for all the ballets.
“Hey, girl! I caught opening night. You guys were great!” she says, glancing up from her computer.
“Thanks.”
An office door opens, and a man steps out. “Lilah, I'm going to lunch,” he says.
“Okay, Mr. Simmons.”
His eyes sweep over me like he thinks I'll keep her from her work. And I swear even though I just heard his voice and know it's not him, the way he looks at me makes me feel like this is the guy. It seems like he'll ask me to leave, but he just turns and walks out the glass door into the main lobby. Once he's out of the building, I turn back to Lilah.
“Listen,” I say, “I was wondering if you could tell me who was in one of the private boxes at last night's performance.”
“You know I can't share that. The ticket holder information is kept in the strictest of confidence. Most of our patrons are well-off and take their privacy very seriously.”
It sounds like she's quoting an employee training video. I expect her to plaster on a fake too-stretched smile and announce how happy she is to be part of the Tivoli theater family.
“Lilah... come on... I really need to know... I'm not going to say anything to anyone.”
She looks around again, as if confirming that her boss really has left, that he didn't forget something and slip back inside to catch her break this most sacred of security oaths. She finally sighs. “Okay.”
