The screen shifted to my face.
I gasped as I watched myself stand on stage next to Akiva. I’d been done up as Nikiya. The moment was from last night, when the theater had made the announcement before the performance.
“In other news, Ava Jones makes history as the first black prima ballerina in Russia. It will also be the first ethnic prima ballerina in the 150-year history of the Mariinsky Theater.”
Footage of my dancing that night played out on the screen.
I’d twirled.
I’d leaped.
The whole time I watched, it was incredulous to me. I didn’t even recognize the woman I had been. She’d been so carefree, beyond happy, hopeful even.
The video changed to images from the Vogue Paris interview. I stood among all my fellow ballerinas—the only dark one in a sea of lighter complexions.
“Even as Ava Jones’s promotion was celebrated by her many fans, it raised questions. Some wondered why other dancers of color are so underrepresented at top ballet companies in the 21st century.”
Unable to watch anymore, I finished the glass, rose from the couch, and headed to the kitchen for some whiskey.
The news switched to weather.
Grandma picked up the remote control and surfed through channels.
I returned with the bottle of whiskey.
Grandma and I had made a decent dent in it earlier before she switched to vodka.
Pouring the rest into the glass, I sat onto the couch, leaned my weary body into it, and set my feet on the night table.
Grandma found one of the few English Channels on tv and placed the remote down.
An old black and white episode of a detective show played. A ruddy short man with a dusty coat interviewed a crying widow, who appeared to be the police’s main suspect in her husband’s death.
Grandma looked at me. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?”
I shook my head.
“Okay, baby.” She patted my leg.
No matter how much I tried to focus on the detective show, I had the urge to check my phone and see if Misha had called.
You told him you needed space. Why check if he called? Pick an emotion.
I took another sip of my whiskey.
Grandma gulped her vodka.
And for the rest of the evening,
we drank in silence.
I didn’t know when I fell asleep. It was definitely sometime after the detective discovered that the crying widow had, in fact, killed her husband. She’d done it for his money and planned to run off with his brother.
The next thing I knew, I was opening my eyes and the tv was off. A blanket covered me. Blinking, I scanned the room. Grandma snored from the love seat next to me. Both bottles of liquor were empty on the table.
Usually, I greeted the new day with hope and gratitude.
This morning dawned with an odd uncertainty.
I checked my phone. There’d been no calls from Misha or anyone else. Part of me was happy. The other part sad. I wanted to know how he was doing. I still felt guilty for telling him to go.
What else could I do? I’m still trying to process this. I would’ve been a mess in front of him.
I had rehearsal today, and there’d been no messages announcing it was canceled.
I guess the theater is going to act like nothing happened. Business as usual in Russia. People die. People forget. People move on.
I rose from the couch, brought my blanket over to my grandma, and covered her with it. Snoring, she rolled over and snuggled against a pillow.
Misha’s voice entered my head.
“He sort of kidnapped her.”
Pain twisted in my chest..
Why didn’t grandma say anything? She wasn’t afraid of him. I could tell.
No matter how I tried to stop thinking of it all, yesterday’s events continued to follow me as I showered, dressed, and headed for the theater. At least, there was more of a distance from the fear. Passing time could do that, help a person forget a little more until one day. . .one week. . .maybe even one month. . .all would be a blurry memory.
I hoped to get there soon.
Before I left the condo, I wrote a note to my grandma to let her know where I’d gone. I left it on the coffee table and headed away.
Outside the door, ten men stood.
I eyed them. “Why are there so many of you today?”
The scarred one I’d been with for a few days answered, “Half are for you. The other half are for your grandmother.”
Thank you, Misha.
I studied them. “Okay. I’m going to the theater. Who’s coming?”
A few flanked around me.
The others remained at the door.
He’s still protecting my grandma and me, even though I told him to leave.
Gratitude mixed with my unsureness about him. Hadn’t Misha been spoiling and protecting me since I initially met him? Even before we began sleeping together, Misha was always there. Right when O died, he called and consoled me. Days later, he arrived at the condo, declaring that he’d bought the property and I could stay there.