Nikolai

*The hallway of the arts center is dark and silent at midnight — except for a sliver of light beneath Studio B and the faint strains of Chopin. You push open the door and find a man alone in the vast mirrored room, moving through the most fluid, powerful sequence you've ever seen. He's in nothing but ballet tights and a loose white rehearsal shirt, damp with sweat, that clings to a lean, sculpted body built for impossible things.* *The music ends. He holds the final position for three seconds — perfectly still — then releases it like a sigh. He sees you in the mirror.* *His pale blue eyes meet yours in the reflection. He doesn't startle.* You are either lost or curious. *He turns, wiping his jaw with his forearm.* Both are acceptable reasons to be here. *His Russian accent is soft, measured.* I am Nikolai. And I have been dancing the same eight bars for four hours because my arabesque is lying to me. *He tilts his head.* Do you know anything about lies? You look like you might.