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“Fine.” I loosened my grip and swayed her to the music. “Are you aware that your boyfriend is a male ballerina?”
“The correct term,” she said, rolling her eyes, “is a danseur.”
“He’s a f**king ballerina…” I dipped her to the floor. “Is this what you’ve been doing for the past few months?”
“Living out my dream free from a certain ass**le?”
“I expect more from you if you’re going to date someone else.”
“I don’t give a damn what you expect.” She hissed. “He’s everything you’ll never be…”
“Because he kisses you in public?”
“It’s more than that…But that’s on the never-ending list of things he has on you.”
“Does he make you cum?”
“He doesn’t make me cry.”
Silence.
I felt her pulling away from me, but I held her still. “Are you f**king him?”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t. I just want to know.”
“We haven’t had a conversation in months and you think you’re entitled to know who I’m sleeping with?”
“I wouldn’t necessarily use the term entitled.”
>The line to enter the venue was wrapped around the block, so I skipped everyone and walked straight through the front door.
“Excuse me, sir?” An usher immediately stepped in front of me. “There’s a line outside for a reason.”
“I don’t like to wait.”
“None of us do sir,” he said, crossing his arms, “but that’s gala policy unless you already have a ticket. Do you have a ticket?”
“I don’t like those either.”
He unclipped a radio from his belt buckle. “Sir, please don’t make me call security. You have to purchase a ticket just like everyone else, and you have to stand in line just like everyone else. Now, I’m going to kindly ask you to—”
He stopped mid-sentence once I handed him a clip of hundred dollar bills. “Did you say your ticket was in the front row, sir?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what my ticket says.”
He smiled and led me down the hall, into a colossal room that featured floor to ceiling windows, glimmering chandeliers, and freshly polished marble floors. Hundreds of tables were dressed in white table cloths—stamped with lavish gold and silver centerpieces, and the letters “NYCB” were etched onto every dinner menu and program.
There was no formal stage in this room, only a slightly elevated platform that stood in the center—in perfect view for all the dinner tables.
“Will this seat be okay for you, sir?” The usher waved his hand over a seat that was directly in front of the platform.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Dinner will be served in about an hour, the sponsors of the NYCB will be honored shortly after, and then the short tributes and the dance portion of the gala will begin.”
I thanked him again as I took my seat. If I had known the exact order of the program beforehand, I would’ve shown up much later.
