Performing Arts
A Word: Request for writer Jay working in a bar and ballet dancer Tim.
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The fucking ballet is the last place Jason would think he'd willingly go to. It's not his scene, not his crowd. There's no smoke and smell of spilt beer amongst the ritzy people milling with their champagne flutes and diamond everything. There's no boisterous laughter in the carefully practiced titters hidden behind their perfectly manicured hands. No honesty to be found except for the tiny corner Jason's staked out for himself in the lobby.
Jason frowns at the sneers he's getting in the button down shirt and good slacks his publicist insisted he get for the signings Jason refuses to attend. Maybe the battered leather jacket is too much for their delicate sensibilities. Maybe it's the sneer he's been giving these pretentious fucks from the start. He doesn't know and he doesn't have a single fuck to give about it.
They're all here to be seen. Talking about the 'art' of it all like they have any idea what that word even means. They're not the ones with a view into the old dance studio the dancers practice in from sun up till sun down every day. The glass front of the place a perfect window to see the blood, sweat, and tears that goes into making this night absolutely flawless.
Without that insight they can't truly appreciate what they're about to see.
Jason has spent weeks watching the dancers between slow shifts at the bar. Lunches where the most complicated order is a beer and basket of fries. Between bouts of rambling thoughts scribbled in his battered notebook that sometimes pan out into a new chapter and sometimes don't.
He's watched the surprisingly muscled men and women perform movements repeatedly. Over and over again. Falling and stumbling their way to perfection. It's humbling and inspiring to watch their dedication to their craft.
And if Jason's eyes stray to one particular dark haired man —the one who always arrives first and leaves last— there's no one to call him on it most days. Though he'd nearly had to break Roy's nose when the man presented him with the expensive ass ticket to the night performance and told him to nut up.
The lobby empties slowly and Jason lets most of the people in ahead of him before following. Maybe, he thinks, as he enters the theater, maybe.
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