He waited in the living room for her to finish dressing. She had answered the door in her bathrobe, her hair still dripping from a bath. He wondered why she hadn't told him it was a bad time. There would've been other nights.
"So, how long have you been here now," he called into the bedroom. There was a thump as something hit the floor.
"Ah, like maybe 3 weeks?" she sounded distracted. "Is it cold out?"
"Well, it gets colder at night here, especially in the fall," he said, "You might want to bring a sweater or whatever you call it."
"A jumper?" she clarified. So she knew the lingo.
"Yes," he laughed, "A jumper, a sweater, whatever."
She emerged from the bedroom, still barefoot but clad in dark blue jeans and a light green wraparound sweater over a cream colored t-shirt. Her wet hair swirled around her shoulders and face as she sank to the floor and pulled socks over her knobby, scarred feet. He watched her cautiously, trying not to stare, as she pulled her athletic shoes on and laced them so tight he thought it couldn't possibly be comfortable. He half expected her to stand up and tamp her foot down into the toe of the shoe before they left.
"Ready?" he said when she had knotted her left shoe three times over.
"I guess," she said, and extended a hand for him to help her up. He grasped her fingers again and she rose, without really pulling on his hand for support.
Even with her regular clothes on, she was a slender, angular form, and the top of her head barely reached to the bottom of his chin. She drew her dripping hair up into a messy ponytail, then twisted it into a bun and secured it with an elastic band she'd had around her wrist. Her face was so lean that her cheek between her jaw and the bone under her eye was nearly concave. When she turned to walk to the door, he could nearly count the little knobs on her spine, from under her hair down to the top of her shoulders.
She was probably stronger than him. The ballerinas nearly always were.