wanted to say
"love," but held back. What he wanted most was her to feel the same
way about him. Was it possible to will her to feel that? Love me, he begged.
Love me.
Then he kissed her again. And again. After a while she
turned her head away and a tear crept out of her eye and flowed down her cheek.
"What's that for?" he asked.
"I'm afraid," she said.
He didn't pursue it, since he suspected what she feared
most. Instead he said, "What's wrong with being human?"
"More than you think," she said. He puzzled over
that answer for days.
So they had kissed and he did not press her further.
Understanding her fear, he did not want to panic her.
After a week she was reasonably recovered and returned to
her classes. Then began another round of unavailability, although he had grown
bolder about calling her late in the evening. It was, he knew, cruel work. At
that hour of the day she was at low ebb, on the cusp of exhaustion.
"It's tough going, Ken," she told him. "I'm
having trouble catching up."
"You will."
"I'm trying as hard as I can."
"I know."
She was totally self-absorbed. Not selfish, exactly, but
completely directed. There was nothing to be done but to encourage her, show
support, cheer her on.
"And you?"
It always surprised him to hear her concern and he always
wondered if she was sincere.
"I think about you all the time, Carol."
"I mean your work."
For some reason it had turned around. Things were moving
again. Perhaps her sense of focus and commitment had inspired him. Of course,
he wanted more. He wanted Carol, yearned for her. Make her love me, he cried,
invoking unseen forces. Is there a limit to longing? he wondered.
At some point, always after a frenzy of writing activity,
Ken took to hanging out around the ballet school, peering through a window in
the studio door, watching Carol at the bar or being instructed on the floor
with the others, delicate dancing-girl dolls and sinewy boy dolls made of rip
cord. She wore those mid-calf warm-up stockings on her precious legs and he was
certain she was the standout. On her toes she seemed the tallest of the group.
One night, he admitted to her his clandestine spying.
"That's awful," she said.
"Awful?"
"You're seeing me klutzy, with all those
imperfections. Now you'll only make me more nervous and unsure."
"Imperfections? That's not what I saw."
"Besides, I'm the tallest and it's not an advantage.
On pointe we can't look taller than our partners."
"I did notice that. The men looked small."
"Too small," she muttered. "That can
hurt."
"Well, I thought you were great."
"You don't understand. You only see form and style.
Whipping and willing the body to move against nature is a terrible struggle.
That's the battle a ballet dancer must win to be truly great. The teacher sees
the tiniest imperfection as a defeat."
"Well, I don't see that," he protested.
"You wouldn't. You're not a dancer."
Of course he saw it, saw it then, saw it now. The artist's
struggle was universal. But so was the struggle of the lover for the loved one.
Not that he had gone from the future immortal of the pen to a smitten Romeo.
His creative zeal was still furious, more furious than ever now that he was
resisting the distraction of her. He pounded away at his story, the novel that
would launch him to the world.
Yet this obsession for Carol was a test of his capacity for
accepting anxiety. Unrequited love enabled him but did not empower him.
Inspiration came in fits and starts. Sometimes it did not come at all. When
that happened, he tried to empty his mind of her, force forgetfulness,
obliterate all images of her likeness, her sounds, the erotic pull of her. His entire
being yearned for her. Desire plagued him, mocked him. It was like he was a
swimmer fighting against a powerful riptide.
He knew exactly what she felt, this need to protect her
single-mindedness, to husband her obsession. Of course he worried that sooner
or later these powerful feelings would completely inhibit his
"love," but held back. What he wanted most was her to feel the same
way about him. Was it possible to will her to feel that? Love me, he begged.
Love me.
Then he kissed her again. And again. After a while she
turned her head away and a tear crept out of her eye and flowed down her cheek.
"What's that for?" he asked.
"I'm afraid," she said.
He didn't pursue it, since he suspected what she feared
most. Instead he said, "What's wrong with being human?"
"More than you think," she said. He puzzled over
that answer for days.
So they had kissed and he did not press her further.
Understanding her fear, he did not want to panic her.
After a week she was reasonably recovered and returned to
her classes. Then began another round of unavailability, although he had grown
bolder about calling her late in the evening. It was, he knew, cruel work. At
that hour of the day she was at low ebb, on the cusp of exhaustion.
"It's tough going, Ken," she told him. "I'm
having trouble catching up."
"You will."
"I'm trying as hard as I can."
"I know."
She was totally self-absorbed. Not selfish, exactly, but
completely directed. There was nothing to be done but to encourage her, show
support, cheer her on.
"And you?"
It always surprised him to hear her concern and he always
wondered if she was sincere.
"I think about you all the time, Carol."
"I mean your work."
For some reason it had turned around. Things were moving
again. Perhaps her sense of focus and commitment had inspired him. Of course,
he wanted more. He wanted Carol, yearned for her. Make her love me, he cried,
invoking unseen forces. Is there a limit to longing? he wondered.
At some point, always after a frenzy of writing activity,
Ken took to hanging out around the ballet school, peering through a window in
the studio door, watching Carol at the bar or being instructed on the floor
with the others, delicate dancing-girl dolls and sinewy boy dolls made of rip
cord. She wore those mid-calf warm-up stockings on her precious legs and he was
certain she was the standout. On her toes she seemed the tallest of the group.
One night, he admitted to her his clandestine spying.
"That's awful," she said.
"Awful?"
"You're seeing me klutzy, with all those
imperfections. Now you'll only make me more nervous and unsure."
"Imperfections? That's not what I saw."
"Besides, I'm the tallest and it's not an advantage.
On pointe we can't look taller than our partners."
"I did notice that. The men looked small."
"Too small," she muttered. "That can
hurt."
"Well, I thought you were great."
"You don't understand. You only see form and style.
Whipping and willing the body to move against nature is a terrible struggle.
That's the battle a ballet dancer must win to be truly great. The teacher sees
the tiniest imperfection as a defeat."
"Well, I don't see that," he protested.
"You wouldn't. You're not a dancer."
Of course he saw it, saw it then, saw it now. The artist's
struggle was universal. But so was the struggle of the lover for the loved one.
Not that he had gone from the future immortal of the pen to a smitten Romeo.
His creative zeal was still furious, more furious than ever now that he was
resisting the distraction of her. He pounded away at his story, the novel that
would launch him to the world.
Yet this obsession for Carol was a test of his capacity for
accepting anxiety. Unrequited love enabled him but did not empower him.
Inspiration came in fits and starts. Sometimes it did not come at all. When
that happened, he tried to empty his mind of her, force forgetfulness,
obliterate all images of her likeness, her sounds, the erotic pull of her. His entire
being yearned for her. Desire plagued him, mocked him. It was like he was a
swimmer fighting against a powerful riptide.
He knew exactly what she felt, this need to protect her
single-mindedness, to husband her obsession. Of course he worried that sooner
or later these powerful feelings would completely inhibit his
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