Page 48 of Rome: The Ballerina

“Saint, baby, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting. I got caught up with makeu–”

I silenced her with a kiss on the lips as her hands collapsed onto my shoulders.

“If I didn’t want to wait, Aliza, I wouldn’t have. No need to explain.”

“But, still– I hate when I keep you longer than necessary.”

“It’s all good,” I claimed, running my free hand up and down her frame.

She was thin as a sheet of paper. Discipline should’ve been her first, middle, and last name. Her dedication was borderline concerning. Aliza had one dream since a little girl.

Prima Ballerina.

Though she was well on her way, she hadn’t obtained the status yet. Because of it, she’d refined her life, diet, circle, and capacity to make sure she met the gold much sooner than later. I commended her dedication. It made her predictable, easy to please, and preoccupied.

With my schedule, her low maintenance partnership was ideal. We made the best of our conflicting schedules, carving time out for us to grow together while still progressing on our own. It made our time together more intentional. I appreciated that more than I let on.

“How can I make it up to you?” She asked, pulling backward.

Though her legs and torso were still pressed against me, her chest was inches away. Her pursed lips forced me to lean forward and kiss them before giving her space, again.

“Uhh–” I thought, tilting my head toward the right. After a few seconds, I produced results. “Dinner.”

“Dinner?” Aliza whined.

“You cook. At my place. Stay the night. We wake up in the morning and run before the sun beats us.”

“I’ll still be dead asleep when the sun wakes, baby. You know this already.”

“You can go back to bed before it comes up. Forty-five minutes. That’s all and we can turn back around.”

“And run forty-five minutes back?”

From the sound of her voice and the sagging of her shoulders, I knew that I wasn’t getting anywhere. I cut my losses while I had the chance. Convincing Aliza, or anyone else, to do anything for or with me was a boundary I wasn’t willing to cross.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Not next week.

Not next month.

“Dinner– let’s just go with dinner.”

“Baby, I can’t. Not tonight. I have this thing– you know. At the theater. And, as much as I’d love to be in your kitchen, I’d like to have you in the audience while I’m on stage.”

“You have a performance?”

“Not exactly, but family and friends are welcome to come. I’d like you there, honey,” she informed me. “A whole lot.”

“If you want me there, Aliza, then you know I’m there.”

It was the truth. I admired her craft as much as she admired mine. I respected it slightly more because of its level of difficulty.

“Okay. It starts at eight. And maybe dinner next week?”

“Works for me.”

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