“Careful,” I say. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Don’t get comfortable with it,” she shoots back. “There’s still a slew of things that need addressing.”
I grin as my eyes drift to a camera tucked in the top corner of the studio, its red light illuminated. “What’s the surveillance situation about?”
Petra follows my gaze. “Documentation. A bunch of our choreographers improvise when they create ballets, so we film everything. Otherwise, genius gets lost between inspiration and memory.”
I frown. “So, my attempts at not humiliating myself are now part of the record?”
“Not permanent,” Petra says. “Just archived. You know, for future instructional videos about whatnotto do.”
I laugh, the sound bouncing off the mirrors. “Happy to contribute to education.”
“I think we’ve tortured you enough for one day,” Petra announces.
As I slip out of my ballet slippers and gather my stuff, the post-workout high squashes any inhibitions I harbor, allowing my thoughts to immediately turn into an invitation.
“Want to grab food? My body’s going to need fuel to repair whatever you just did to it,” I say.
Petra considers this, her index finger tapping her pursed lips. I tense as the silence stretches—one beat, two beats.
Then she looks up and responds. “I know a place that won’t judge your current state.”
After we slip out of Lincoln Center, Petra sets a pace that’s brisk but unhurried, like she’s guiding me through her version of the city. Broadway is still buzzing with tourists clutching playbills, while the smell of burnt sugar from a nut cart wafts under neon marquees. A man on the corner sells knockoff handbags while bobbing his head to music.
We cut west, and the scene changes. The bright theater glow gives way to quieter streets where the sidewalks are uneven, and brownstone stoops wear chipped paint like badges.
By the time we reach Chelsea, the city feels like it’s exhaled. Petra ushers me to a pelmeni shop wedged between a neighborhood bodega and a dry cleaner. Inside the pelmeni shop stands a hand-lettered specials board featuring today’s menu: Pork & Beef Pelmeni, Lamb Pelmeni, Chicken Pelmeni with Onion and Dill, Short Rib Pelmeni.
It’s the kind of place that doesn’t care what Instagram thinks, and it smells delicious.
I take in the mismatched chairs and crooked picture frames as we enter. Petra moves through the space with familiarity, and when an older man emerges from the kitchen, his face lights up at the sight of her.
“?????! ??? ?????” he calls out.
“That’s Yuri. He owns the place,” Petra says to me as she approaches him.
“????????????, ????,” she responds, slipping into Russian with ease. She leans against the counter, completely relaxed. “?? ???? ??? ? ??????? ?????.”
Yuri grins, his eyes bouncing between us with amusement. “???? ???? ????? ?????????”
Petra turns to me. “He wants to know if you like pelmeni.”
“I’ve never met a dumpling I didn’t want to be friends with,” I say.
She spins back to Yuri, Russian flowing from her lips. “??? ?????? ?????????. ???? ???????????? ? ????????? ? ?????, ?????? ? ???????? ? ???????. ?, ??????????, ??????.”
Yuri nods, scribbling our order. “??? ????? ?????? ?????.”
“???????,” Petra says before leading me to a corner booth.
I slide into my seat as we both get settled. “That was…impressive.”
“What, ordering dinner?” she teases.
“You know what I mean,” I say.
Petra shrugs, but her smile softens. “My dad’s legacy. He was determined that we wouldn’t lose the connection to where he came from. Our house was this mishmash of languages. Russian weaving through Alabama drawl. When I was little, I resented the Russian part. All I wanted was to sound exactly like everyone else. But now…” Her words drift off. “It’s one of the few pieces of him I get to keep.”
