Morning all. The bed was just too cozy and I slapped my snooze button one too many times. I suspect I will use lunch to catch up from the slow start. For now though, let’s jump into the morning prompt. Fifteen Minutes on the timers and off we go…
I think the character could be fun to work with. Going from an extremely regulated environment to one where she makes the regulations would be an interesting set of changes to work with. I would need to look more into the lives of dancers first though.
Tuesday, December 5th: Eyes glittered in the shadows.
Eyes glittered in the shadows. Eve froze, but relaxed as a Siamese Cat eased out of the undergrowth. Barely a twig swayed at her passing. Eve had been seeing the cat periodically for days now. The cat was well groomed and well fed but had no collar.
It never appeared to beg for food or to try to come into the house, but anytime she was out in the back yard, the cat came to visit. Usually during day light hours though.
‘Of course I am usually only in the back yard during daylight hours.’
The cat watched her as she straightened and clipped her measuring tape to the waist of her jeans. It tugged it down slightly but she doubted anyone would be grading her outfit here. Unless the cat was some sort of fashion police.
‘In which case the waistband of my jeans is the least of my citations.’
Eve tugged a little self consciously at the hem of her t-shirt. It was old and faded. There were tiny holes eaten along the edges and even a somewhat larger hole under her left arm. The shirt was one she kept for comfort but never let anyone see her wearing.
‘But I don’t have to worry about that here,’ she thought. Eve made a conscious effort to shift her hand away from the shirt. ‘At least not now.’
She was so used to every move she made being scrutinized. Every item of clothing she wore was analyzed, weighed and judged. Every morsel of food she ate, eyed with concern.
She was the face of the brand. She went from professional ballet dancer to corporate front and both sides had restrictions. When dancing her life was regulated by diet and exercise as well as practice. Every single move was one of practiced perfection and every scrap of food was eaten for nutritional content rather than choice or taste.
And it worked for her. She became good and then she became the prima. She was celebrated, and courted. Her name and performances sold tickets. She never felt that she had arrived though as after reaching what her instructors thought of as perfection she had no choice but to work hard to maintain it for as long as she could.
Then of course came the accident. The accident that was not an accident at all and well publicized. She was one of the lucky ones who survived the tragedy but testifying brought a new kind of fame. And she could no longer dance. Her face and figure were left un marked even if her body would no longer reach performance levels again.
She worked hard and regained grace, but not perfection. And then she was presented with an opportunity in her retirement for dance. Then her world shifted again. But it was no less regulated of a life.
Ten til Midnight 