I expected your energy to surround me even if you remained silent. I honestly didn’t think you’d abandon me so completely. I even suspected you might be watching to see if I was distraught. Then I started to worry you reallyhadleft me for good, which brought on a shit-ton of feelings I didn’t want to deal with.
I invented all sorts of reasons why you broke up with me. None were the reason you gave, because that was only an excuse and your way of letting me down easy. The spirit equivalent ofit’s not you, it’s me.
In my meanest moments, I figured you’d gotten what you wanted and moved on.
And that was when I began scrying in earnest. I went back to my public library days of using every tool available to me. I visited a coven, but they were clearly more into swapping sex partners and tripping on acid than performing actual magic. Similar to porn, their witchcraft was a weak impersonation of the real thing.
The longer I went without hearing from you, the more desperate I became to summon you. Every shift in the wind was your spirit just out of reach. Every shiver down my spine was a warning to leave you alone.
I’m not trying to blame all of this on you, but leaving me like that—so abruptly and completely—really fucked with my head.
The only place for me to focus my energies was in ballet, and the only break I got from feeling all that goddamned loss was when I funneled it into my dancing. Some days, I probably looked like a corpse dragging my ass around the studio floor. Still, I stayed nights and weekends to train because the alternative was to call for you in my bedroom, only to be ignored.
Even though it was fall in Miami, the warm weather meant we existed in a perpetual summer, and the company was performingA Midsummer’s Night Dreamon an outdoor stage at a local botanical garden. The venue was lush and exotic, with the tropical plants surrounding us to add ambiance to the production. For dress rehearsals, we spent late nights in the gardens after they had closed to the public, where we were subjected to shoddy lighting and sometimes just as crappy weather.
I was a tailor, not a great part. I was better than my role, but casting was often political, and I’d long suspected thatMasterSergei was punishing me for rejecting him.
When he tapped me on the shoulder one evening during rehearsal and asked to see me in his office the next day, I figured it might be to relieve me of my company apprenticeship. There were always a dozen dancers in line behind me, ready to take my place, and one thing Sergei was extremely good at was reminding us of how replaceable we were.
Bruno and I arrived at the studio together the next morning, as usual, and I told him I had to meet with Sergei. He gave me a look like there was something he wanted to say but was holding back. I’d become used to Bruno’s long, searching gazes, as if he was afraid of saying the wrong thing and having me burst into tears. But the crying phase had mostly passed and had been replaced by a cold, dead nothingness.
“What is it?” I asked, wary.
“Don’t suck his dick for a part.”
I laughed, then sobered up quickly because Bruno wasn’t even cracking a smile.
“Seriously?”
Sergei had been icy to me for so long that I’d forgotten it was even a possibility.
“Seriously, Orlando. It’s not worth it.”
I was offended Bruno thought I would try and angle for an advantage in that way, as if I weren’t good enough to land a role on my talent alone. To mask my hurt feelings, I said flippantly. “Well, if that’s what it takes to get a decent role around here…”
Bruno shook his head and shoved me playfully. I made the mistake of still having a smile on my face when I walked into Sergei’s office.
“Mr. Bell,” he said as though I’d just made his day. “Have a seat.”
He gestured to those familiar old leather seats, and I took the one with my back to the wall.
“I have noticed a change in you recently,” Sergei said after a few questions about my health and well-being. When I didn’t offer anything in return, he continued, “A fortifying of the spirit.”
“What doesthatmean?” I asked, already exhausted by Sergei’s weird and invasive observations.
“You are very focused and putting in the hours. Your movements have become more deliberate. You are not so light on your feet.”
“I can go on an eating plan,” I offered, figuring he was calling me fat.
“No, your physique is perfect as always, and this change is not unwelcome. It says to me you’ve grown. Matured.”
I nodded. Was this perplexing man actually warming up to a compliment? What a nice change from being called all sorts of clumsy-footed animals.
“Tell me, how are things with Henri?”
I winced at the mention of your name. It was like an ice pick to the heart. Sergei didn’t miss it.
“Not so good, I take it,” he said, barely hiding his glee.
