A Sensual Novel 9

Ballet is Chapter 9 of my carousel romance Traveling True: A Sensual Novel.

. . .

“What are you weeping for?”

Mim twirls around to face Stefan. “For that Mim, the stupid dummy.”

Her eyes stop issuing tears. As much as she might enjoy indulging in their dampness, tears dried out. Mim searches for Stefan’s eyes, as is he not her caring husband substitute? Evil will no longer harm her under his tender protection.

Anxiety ebbs off, warm comfort blurring its dying flutters. Mim lazes in a snug bedroom, where Anton’s unsparing glance cannot reach her heart’s ticking.

Stefan breaks the silence. “I talked to the theater manager in person today. He expects us to drop by his office toward the month’s end. Till mid-August he’ll be out of town.”

Stage is what Mim most desires, then why does discussing this designer position leave her cold?

To irritate her more, Stefan asks, “You have a copy of the script, don’t you? Have you read it?”

Why would he pry into her musings and doings? “Yes, of course I have. What? You worry I won’t manage?”

“Just thinking you lack experience, that’s all.”

“It was not me who insisted on this opportune arrangement, remember? Stefan, I’d love the job, can’t deny it. Yet, occupying someone else’s position … Well, I don’t know, hate the idea of people keeping a place warm for me. I’m still considering whether to accept it.”

“Mim, how many times have I told you? You’re not poaching a position, it’s vacant. True, not quite public knowledge, but—”

“OK, we’ll see.”

“There’s nothing to mull over. Everything’s set.”

“Not yet.”

“As you wish, because I’m done with this topic.” So Stefan picks up where he left off his reading.

Mattress of incongruous union

In bed. They spend the sultry afternoons sprawled on that broad platform, the opulent mattress of their incongruous union, while townspeople inhale the breezy air along the quay. And if they ever go out, they saunter as far as the summer terrace across the block and back home.

Stefan has second thoughts and resumes his interrogation. “Did you get hold of the course book on stage production?”

Mim prays he would leave her alone. “Not yet. But I’ve contacted the library and as soon as they get it, they’ll let me know.”

Stefan could make a first-rate detective. Never sigh freely, since when you least expect it, he slips in a one-off matter he needs to decipher. If only Mim beat him at this and sneaked in her issue of a stroll in town. But what more to ask of this man?

She does, though. “Shall we have a short stroll?”

“Patience, Mim, I’ve just only got back from work.”

“I didn’t mean now. Later.”

“All right. We’ll go.”

“I’m fed up with loafing indoors.”

“Why? I understand you go out in the morning often.”

Stefan’s remark put Mim off balance and she keeps mum. Is he getting somewhere discomfiting? But why should she bother her head about his assumptions? Mim will recline against her posh pillow and lie there bored stiff. She is off it, anyway.

Another tomorrow ensues, when she will sunbathe alone in the bright kitchen before fleeting off in the streets. Mim lapses in fantasy: preparing breakfast while listening to Mozart, reading, gazing beyond the unctuous river … But when will she finish her master’s thesis? And when expose to a worldwide public the deeper, wonderful things inside her? Mim will dedicate herself to painting back in her hometown. Might as well accept the government–appointed position and take easel and paints to whatever village or least hamlet or secluded nunnery.

Ballet spirit

Stefan switches on the TV, then lounges back on his side of bed, yawns long, and resumes reading, holding the newspaper spread wide, a shield between eyes and screen.

Ballet. Tchaikovsky. The screen’s flickering light reflects in Anton’s soul and Mim’s alike, as though Saturday indulgent producers offered this music to them. Frolicsome accords, then breezy, rise to imperial anthem and soar high, swelling into an elated spirit larger than life. Mim and Anton breathe in that spirit together until their union’s bubble outgrows the terrestrial globe.

Each pull of a fiber muscle on the screen triggers a twitch in Mim’s chest, and Anton’s. The next moment, the dancers’ willowy arms caress them with ethereal strokes. Mesmerized, Mim watches as the human breast triumphs, sinewy neck glorifies, shoulders clasp life in, bending toward wombs. Soles stump orders, chins snub, calves elongate to beg, or plump up, threatening to curse. Sensuous thighs make love, fingers play celestial harps, while body and spirit rise united, the exceptional human being.

Does Stefan not hear the music? He slouches unmoved, his nose dug in that ugly paper scribbled in mundane cuneiforms, only to work Mim into a lather. Mom, Dad, this is Stefan. I can’t love him.

Ballet duel

It dawns on Mim she should stir up a conclusive mock duel between Anton and Stefan, so she dares him. “Stefan, look, they’re showing ballet dancing!”

With a jerk, Stefan buries his nostrils in the paper. “I’d rather read a sports magazine.”

Alarmingly horrible. Stefan and Anton are oceans asunder. Mim needs further evidence, though.

“I can’t believe you don’t like ballet.”

“I don’t.”

And she asks, “You don’t?”

And he says, “I don’t.”

Stefan is a sterile blank mass, for all his exemplary breeding, his erudition, and the superhuman intelligence that always amazed her. He lies heavy beside Mim, suppressing her aspirations toward worlds undiscovered. What could enrapture this encyclopedic person’s attention since he knows everything?

Ballet freeze

The fantastic ballet movements freeze in a gawky still, while Mim’s brains simmer. She itches to grab the science freak by the shoulders to give him a hard shake, pictures herself tugging wildly at his inert limbs. Stefan’s feet stick out from under the flimsy cover and she images his ridiculous, alabaster, plump soles.

Mim flings herself upon him and snatches the paper off his smart mug. “Look!”

His bland mat eyes, his bitter mouth, lower lip drooping toward a frozen chin. This icon of disbelief sends a chilling ripple through Mim. What has she done to Stefan? The man who nurses her through lovesickness, who indulges her awkward whims, who keeps her protected outside that beast’s range of callousness. That guy you love is not human, Mim. Silence covers the bed. Twilight will settle upon their uncomfortable grief and tomorrow she will expect him in the sunny kitchen with dinner set. From its window, Mim will spot Stefan hasting home, and they will celebrate. Will eat together.

About the author

Solar Writer walking on the dark side to bring mind's secrets to light, in romances with a psychological edge. Next Woman blogger showing you how to use the power of SELF to stay young, confident and magnetic.