the ballerina and the baseball player

She packed up her things for the weekend. A weekend away from here is what I need, she thought. Can't let too much of life go by standing still.

The travel was long and tiring, but she finally found a welcoming place with a hard, warm floor she could rest on for the night or two. Friends awaited there. Friends who had been met before, and friends who hadn't. They took her out of the rain and the driving wind and fed her and warmed her and treated her as one of their own.

Across the rough, round table there was a man with eyes the color of chocolate which seemed to melt at the edges. They smiled at the ballerina and frequently flicked back to her face to check the tip of her nose or the curve of her collarbones. Her eyes, hazel and dancing, took in his hands, long as a pianist's (though he didn't play) and the way his cheek seemed to tug at his mouth when he laughed.

This night she slept not on the hard, friendly floor, but in a soft high bed where her long legs couldn't reach the ground. He smelled of earth and the clean sharpness of snow melt in rivers. He reminded her of summer and everything she wanted in life outside of the studio and the stage. Strong hands traced those collarbones and fit the slim waist. They laughed when they found he could enclose her tiny fist in one of those hands- it was perfectly baseball sized.

Together they hid from sleep and fought the night, but morning came anyway. It was time for the ballerina to move on, but he kissed her forehead and stole back a few more minutes. She walked back into the driving rain with a smile and the cold didn't bother her. She took the bed with her and stayed wrapped up in the soft, the smell of earth still in her hair.