The Cranes Dance by Meg Howrey Page A

happens when you date civilians. You tell your average non-dancing dude that you are a dancer and they all think the same thing, which is some version of “Wow, so I can fuck her while she’s in the splits.” Perhaps all these guys should be issued a dancer at some point in their sexual development so they can get over this debilitating notion and learn the truth: the splits are a terrible position to have sex in. Nobody gets any traction at all and it’s just goofy. You’re better off with the basics and someone who isn’t either hungry or exhausted.
    This morning would have been a good moment for Andrew because I was very upset, somewhat theatrically so really, but I didn’t long for his comforting arms to be around me. Andrew was security, maybe, but not solace. Then he turned out to be neither, right, so the joke is on me. And I’m in the splits, getting no traction.
    I took class with Gareth before going to rehearsal. Gareth teaches at a big studio on the Upper West Side.
    So here’s the thing with ballet studios around town. For the most part, all the classes are technically “open.” Which means if you have a pair of ballet slippers, you could go take Gareth’s class too. Most classes are rated: Beginning, Intermediate, or Advanced, but teachers rarely throw anyone out. They need the money. So at a class like Gareth’s you might get major company members, some unemployed dancers, Broadway kids, seriousstudents, and then a handful of freaks. The freaks never miss a class. Proof that one can maintain a residence in New York City, have enough surplus cash to pay for dance class, feed and clothe oneself, learn choreography, wear pointe shoes, and still be an absolute stranger to Reason. There’s one regular at Gareth’s who spends the entire class standing in the corner and arranging himself in elaborate Diaghilev-era postures while talking to his reflection in the mirror. It should be noted that these whackjobs are probably the happiest people in the room.
    Gareth is always pleased to see me or any professional, really. Since he only teaches at noon he doesn’t get a lot of us. Wendell, who teaches at ten at the same studio, is the popular choice for most company dancers, since his class is by invitation only. It’s always packed. He’s quite the little guru. People get very nervous when they know Wendell is in the audience. His “Not bad at all, sweetie, there were some very nice moments here and there” means more to some dancers than an “Absolutely radiant and virtuosic” from the
New York Times
. I don’t like him, or his class, or the atmosphere in the room. He’s a big fan of Gwen, though.
    Gareth is English and I find his accent and irony soothing. I’m happy when he comes to a performance, because I know he’ll have something funny to say to me when I see him next. Sure enough, he gave me a wink before class began and during pliés he sauntered over to my spot. (I like to be at the barre near the window. For the fresh air and in case I need something to throw myself out of.) “Darling,” he said. “I was there last night. I saw what you did.”
    “What did I do?” I laughed. “I can’t remember a thing.”
    “You made me want to be a Polish Princess,” Gareth drawled, doing a sketch of a mazurka with his hands. “You made me forget that I’ve seen the ruddy ballet five thousand times. Where did
that
come from?”
    “Powerful analgesics,” I said.
    “Oh?” Gareth raised an eyebrow. “Well, keep it up.”
    Class.
    First thirty to forty-five minutes are at the barre. There’s an order and a logic to it, but it’s not always the same exercises. Some teachers might start class with a little guided stretching: rolling the head, the shoulders, swinging out the hips, the lower back. Some teachers may have a set sequence for the first couple of combinations, and if you’re new to the class and don’t know it, you just follow the person standing at the barre in front of you.