The hall is as empty as it gets when you show up there. There's usually events or celebrations or God-only-knows in the main hall but today is not a day particularly worth celebrating or condemning. For most, it's another day. Meanwhile, here you are in full parka, pants, and boots, like the place was about to snow over. It's certainly not what a dancer, prospective or experienced, should wear, and you can see in the mirrors a hundred miles away that you're more baby pink than you are a human being. You can't even make out your own skin within it all.
Five minutes past the hour, you notice his hair, now at roughly a sixty-three degree angle for the most part, before you notice him. As he apologizes quickly, jogging in like it only barely matters, you tear your eyes away from the mirror hundreds of miles away and pretend that he was always in the room. Somehow, judgmental eyes seem to follow you.
You notice him in knee-high silver fighter boots above bunched pants and his traditional white-jacket and red shirt, and you can't remember if you're here to fight or to dance. You're not sure what to make of it, but in your mind all you can see is you in your getup and somehow it seems okay.
He grins at you and you force a smile. You accept that you're going to have to give your best impression without realizing that he looks as unaccustomed as you.