From then on, the two were nearly inseparable. She slowly pried his life's story out of him, from his earliest memories of being lulled to sleep by the creak of bedsprings as his mother plied her trade, to her death when he was 8, to the lucky break of finding a teacher of dance who took him on in exchange for the chores the boy could do, and ending with his despair when his mentor had died. Catrine's compassion was sometimes too much for him to bear, and he would leave her at the stage door sometimes, when the look in her eyes overpowered him. He would always apologize, though he never explained, and in an odd way, she understood.

Being young, they had much energy for being with each other, and no week would pass without them dancing until long past midnight at least one night. He, though well aware of that which went on between a woman and a man, still was a bit shy, for Catrine was a girl of good family, and he had, for her, embraced a kind of respectability. And so, he was rather taken aback one night in September when she ended a gay polka they were dancing with a kiss.

She had decided that he needed to be awoken to her as a woman (not just as a sister, as he had once perceived her), and expected him to respond as ardently as any young man. When instead he pulled his head back and stared at her as if she had taken leave of her senses, she was insulted. She wrenched herself from his arms and whirled on her heel, heading for the door. He caught up with her just outside and grabbed her wrist.

She whirled again to face him, fury held tightly to keep out the pain of rejection. "What?" she shouted at him, trying to be heard over the music and noise still pouring from the café.

He stared at her, not certain of what to say, but sure that he could not let her leave this way. Her gaze dropped to her wrist, held in a loose but unbreakable grip. His gaze followed, and he remembered the last time he had seen her wrist this way. A small voice asked him if the man he had knocked out had gripped her thus for similar reasons. He ignored the voice.

He swallowed, finding his voice. "What was that for?" he asked inanely.

She scowled at him. "What is a kiss normally for? But I see now that you don't want to be kissed by me." She lifted her hand. "Now, if you'll just let me go, I'll be on my way and bother you no more."

"Catrine! I...I didn't think..." He trailed off, not knowing the words to express his feelings.

Her hard gaze continued to bore into him, but he didn't notice. It suddenly dawned on him that she saw him as more than a partner, a brother... but as a man.

Catrine, meanwhile, was beginning to lose her fury, and wanted to go where she could brood alone. "Paul, let go of me! I don't care what you thought or didn't think- I want to go ho-"

He pulled her to him and laid his lips gently over hers, cutting off the flow of words. Her slender body pressed to his stirred things in him he had never expected to feel- tenderness and protectiveness- along with the familiar lust.

Her hands twined around his neck as she ardently responded, and he groaned softly, pleased with her response. His hands stroked her back, but returned to her shoulders, softly breaking the kiss, for he knew he could not take advantage of such an innocent response.

She looked up at him dreamily, and he had a fleeting moment of temptation to carry her off to his one-room flat. But that vanished as he thought of the sagging bed, the mended curtains, the threadbare rug. His ardor, instantly cooled by the thought of her reaction to the squalor in which he lived, would not come back easily, and he knew that it was now time to escort her home. Releasing her from his arms, he retained her hand and they began to stroll down the street in companionable silence. They spoke not a word until they reached her front door, where she turned to him.

"Paul," she pronounced solemnly, "I believe we have gone as far I this relationship as I can allow, knowing your youth. Also, I am afraid I cannot see as much of you as I have been, for people have begun to talk in the ballet, and if such things reach the ears of the manager, he is sure to be livid." She looked up at him, pleading with her eyes that he understand. "We could both be fired for it."

Paul nodded, suddenly aware of the early autumn chill in the air. He understood such things to be the way of the ballet, for the tempers of artistes were very seldom suited to each other, and love affairs gone sour could ruin a show. Still, the thought of seeing less of her, even as he had begun to hope to see more, was a blow to him. He nodded again, and turned from her, and walked away to whatever rest he might find in his own small room.