In the dressing room, six minutes into the third act, I put on the white powder. The movement is automatic, almost a dry tapping against my skin. For some reason, my throat becomes stubborn, it rebels against me; I better ignore it. It's silly nerves, nothing more. I continue to cover every bit of my skin with this powder so light that it ends up looking almost transparent. When I finally conclude the battle between the sponge and my face, I tie my laces: ribbon on the right, ribbon on the left. Tight, because if I don't, God help me. Only this tight knot will save me. No one else.
I hear the third call and move forward, feeling the stares on me at every step. How awful that these slippers sound hollow when I step on them. Although, come to think of it, it's the floor's fault, not mine, not the slippers. Before my mind wanders any further, the lights mark my exit, or so I'm told I should. I always know when it's my turn by the music, those unique details I perceive when dancing. My eyes can barely process what is happening, but my body is already on stage, moving. I barely register that the theater is bursting at the seams, though my traitorous throat, she does know. Luckily, my scattered mind doesn't give her a chance to freak out. I get distracted thinking again: really, who designed this hollow floor? Only the music and my soft footsteps are supposed to be heard, nothing else. Maybe someone in the front row heard me behind the curtain... No, they would need a trained ear, or be experts in ASMR "Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response" in Spanish.
I dance, or so I think. I move to the rhythm of the orchestra that, until now, I barely notice in the corner. How come I hadn't seen it before... now it all makes sense. I let myself go, with a newfound "musical awareness". How poetic, I think.
Am I doing it right? I don't know how I remember the steps, I don't even know the names. I mean, sure, I know it's ballet. Technically it is, logically it is. But inside I feel like I'm making a fool of myself. Ah, my throat's acting up again! attention to silence it. Why label what I'm doing?
When does this end! My feet hurt. I hope I'm following the choreography. This is ridiculous. My skin is dry, damn powder, damn skin that can't even stand cream.
Finally, a sharp "ping" signals the end. I tiptoe out, fearing that everyone will hear the sound of my footsteps. What an embarrassment it would be to be thought ill of as an architect just for that. My mind finally quiets, and the lump in my throat disappears. I wonder, was it really silenced? No, I just paid attention to something else.
Suddenly, something distracts me: a strange, metallic smell. It smells like... like blood. As I sit up, I notice slippers next to me, stained red. A wet spot spreads out and reaches my feet. I shiver - how could I not notice that my toes were bleeding? I take off a slipper and see the mess: the average open, the toes shredded. My toe caps were missing. I danced without protection.
A concerned colleague approaches. "I was going to warn you that you were missing your protection, but you seemed so focused, I didn't want to interrupt your ritual."
Still with my mind in the clouds, I smile. "The architect turned out to be smarter than me, judging by my bleeding feet."
