Hidden Talents

It was another late arrival. It’d happened a few times over the past few weeks - she came home after nine, mildly sweaty, but always trying to make it look like she wasn’t, like it was just another work day. First the infirmary, then her centre, that’s all. She always tried to dry herself off and used perfume every time, but the only shower she could use was at home and it was always her hair that got the most soaked, anyway. She wondered whether he noticed and she also wondered whether he knew she was lying. She desperately tried to make it look like work, nothing exceptional, but she couldn’t be sure about what he thought. And, out of fear, she didn’t ask.

The truth was, she was ashamed. She wasn’t sure why exactly she was ashamed, because she wasn’t doing anything shameful, quite the opposite. Maybe it was just the context of it all that made her keep all that a secret. The context of their lives. They had a lot in common, some parts of their lives growing up were very similar, but others couldn’t have been more different. He was an artist - in many different ways - stuck doing an office work. He played the piano and sang, both beautifully, and could learn almost anything in a very short time, or at least it looked like it. His family supported it and from what she’d heard, his teachers had always been lovely and appreciative. He could woo anyone and that was part of his charm. Parts of it talent, parts of it relentless practice, but either way, he was good at what he did.

She, on the other hand, was a hidden artist, secretive and ashamed of herself. When she had first picked up the violin as a child, she’d loved it, despite the sounds being awful. But she was a quick learner and it got better every day. Then it had become a chore. Her teacher had grown impatient and none of her notes had been good enough so one day she’d come with a cane, punishing her fingers for every wrong note, even slightly off. That had been the end of violin for her, she’d started to hate it and had given up. Then there had been ballet, the thing she’d picked herself because she’d felt like every future princess should know how to dance ballet. They’d kept at it for a few years, while she and her sister had been trained in etiquette and ballroom dancing, their shoulders tied to a chair with every meal just so they wouldn’t slouch. When she’d first started with ballet, she was young and nobody had the heart to tell her that she wasn’t really made for ballet. Her mother had supported her, while her father had had a few sharp remarks he’d thought she hadn’t heard. She’d been in her early teens when her instructor had given in and told her that her poses would never be perfect, no matter how hard she tried. She’d been short and slightly chubby, not the lean muscular type they liked to see. Since then, she was ashamed. Nobody had told her for years, she’d been embarrassing herself for years. And the shame that came with that realization stayed with her.

She sang in perfect pitch and a pretty voice, but only to herself, or her pets, or her plants. She danced, but only when she knew her form was perfect. She still hated the violin, though.

In her fortieth year on this earth, she started missing ballet again. The elegance of it, the steadiness. But she lived with someone who put her long forgotten talents to shame and so she hid it, her perfectionism taking over her reason. She could never tell him about something she wasn’t perfect in - and she’d never be perfect in ballet. She hoped to keep it a secret that would maybe bring some benefits even for him. Maybe he’d appreciate her slightly leaner waist and firmer legs, even though still soft and round. She liked the roundness of her body and it was never her intention to perform for anyone so she didn’t feel like getting rid of it. Her lessons were private - first hour with an instructor who didn’t care about her body and imperfection - or at least that’s what she told herself to keep her anxieties at bay - and the second hour all by herself, listening to beautiful classical music and simply dancing. It was sweaty and her legs hurt, but she was proud of herself for still being able to arch her back all the way down and still being able to keep en pointe. It was fighting the pain that she liked, it gave her what she thought was the illusion of strength. And with her background in dancing, she improved fast, getting back to the moves she did as a young girl. Her age wasn’t a restriction after all. Her body kept its youthfulness thanks to the Light and it seemed like the muscle memory was still there as well. It was just a strange, hidden little hobby (though he knew about her doing ballet in the past… never in the present).

Deep inside, though, she knew that this secret wouldn’t last forever. And deep inside, she anticipated the revelation as much as feared it. There was a point in their relationship when she decided not to keep things from him. Appart from occasional surprises and birthday wishes… But things that meant a lot to her… he should know, she thought. But was it worth mentioning? Was this even important? Maybe not. Maybe it was just another way to keep her busy and not thinking, to keep her away from her neverending thoughts so she can come home tired and happy and fall into his arms, content and too exhausted to think straight. Maybe it wasn’t important at all…