First position. A pause.

Second position. A quiet shuffle.

Third position. A sharp intake of air.

Fourth position. Slightly parted lips.

Fifth position. A sigh escaping.

Ever since she lost her virginity, Lidiya could only climax if she thought about the five positions of ballet. Classically trained since the time she could stand upright, her mother had hopes of her being prima ballerina in a Tchaikovsky creation. And through bloody toes and tears, Lidiya worked hard to make her mother's dream a reality.

Her childhood was not an easy one, between school, ballet, and a mother forced to work multiple jobs in order to pay for lessons. Lidiya was home alone most of her life. Ballet was the only constant presence in her life. As a young girl, she wanted badly to please her mother, to wear the pink tutu and laced up pointe shoes. As a teenager, she tried to rebel, but no one was ever home to notice. Her ballet instructor did, however, and the thought of disappointing her was too great so she poured herself even further into dancing.

In high school, Lidiya was no longer among her peers, but rather attended a national school for dance. A rigorous program, they had students practicing in the studio upward of four hours a day, not including the cardio routines they were expected to maintain. Between eating disorders and sleepless nights of perfecting her pirouette or grand jeté, Lidiya would soon find solace in two things: alcohol, and sex. She had been recruited by a dance company by the time she finished school, and she often joined her peers for drinks after practices and performances. Familiar faces from her company would often swirl together those nights, as everyone shared cigarettes and drinks in nondescript cups. In those early days, her small frame lent itself to a low tolerance for alcohol...and an inversely proportional sex drive.

Lidiya took comfort in the one night stands with the knowledge that, if even for a few hours, someone noticed her. Someone wanted to hold her, to feel her. Yet despite the attention from her male peers, she couldn't escape from the grasp ballet had over her life. It started as a release through self-pleasure: she'd touch the soles of her feet together as she caressed herself, eventually making her way between her legs. There was the familiar feeling, of warmth and of pleasure, one she could uniquely bring to herself. And in her mind she'd imagine the five basic positions - the foundation for all movements required in ballet, and in her life.

Her mother passed away one day without much fanfare - Lidiya was touring with her company when the stage manager broke the news. She hardly flinched, though somewhere deep inside she knew she was supposed to feel some sadness. It was that night Lidiya gave the best performance of her life.

At least, that's what the card read, accompanied by flowers in a crystal vase that was waiting for her in her changing room. The card also had the name of a restaurant written on it with a time, and the letter V just below. Lidiya flipped the card between her fingers.

"No name?" she thought, studying the sharp lines of every letter. She didn't recognize the handwriting from any previous secret admirers, few, though persistent they might be. Intrigued, and having the desire to not be alone just yet, she changed into her streets clothes, pocketed the card, and hailed a cab back to her hotel room where she could shower before heading out to the restaurant.

The restaurant was dimly lit, and a low hum carried the many voices of the patrons to Lidiya's ears. Despite trying to pick appropriate attire, she still felt underdressed. She was nervous, but felt a twinge of excitement. As she approached the host's stand, she suddenly released she had no idea what to do or say. A young man stood at the other side of a podium, with finely groomed features, wearing a black suit. Lidiya could feel his eyes as he looked her up and down, an expression on his face she could only describe as indignation.

"Do you have a reservation?" he asked, almost accusatory. Like he knew she didn't belong there. Lidiya opened the small purse she brought with her, and pulled out the card. She handed the card to the host, and she could hear as he sucked the air through his teeth, a small tut as he read the card. He looked up at her, first in disbelief, then he turned the card over. His face paled immediately, and this time when he looked at her, she could feel the fear as if he committed some faux pas.

"R-right this way."

He briskly walked towards the back of the restaurant, weaving between booths and servers carrying trays containing all sorts of culinary delights. Lidiya scarcely could keep up with him. They soon approached a booth tucked away, she would not have known it was there had the host not led her. He muttered some pleasantry as he quickly left her to make his way back to the front. She finally looked at who awaited her in this hidden retreat.

An older man, though not as old as she had expected, with finely chiseled features, pouring two glasses of what looked like champagne.

In her experience with "adoring fans'', most were men in their early fifties, working through mid-life crises, with wives and children waiting back home. The distinct lack of wrinkles was the first thing she noticed. The lack of a wedding band, the second. The man looked up at Lidiya, and even in the low light, she was struck by his blue eyes. He smiled as he stood from his seat.

"Will you join me for dinner?"

Labels: fiction junction, Viktor's Girls