Chapter Nine #2
“I remember,” I say in between bites. “That I remember, for sure.” I crane forward, pulled into her orbit. “This sounds like way more than just dancing for you.”
“It is,” she admits. “Tchaikovsky’s music gets under your skin and sets up residence.
It demands that you feel everything. Its joy, its pain, its hope that hurts because you want it so badly.
Sometimes when I’m dancing, especially when at my best, everything else dissolves.
There’s only movement and music and this feeling of being part of something infinite. ”
Her words hover between us, unguarded. “Sorry. I’m probably overwhelming you with my obsessions.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I get it completely. I mean, I couldn’t pick Tchaikovsky music out of a Spotify playlist, but I know that feeling of disappearing into something bigger. On the ice, sometimes everything else just evaporates…everything makes sense.”
Petra studies me. “Yes. Exactly that feeling. It’s why I keep coming back even when it tries to break me.
That moment when everything clicks.” She picks up her fork again.
“Balanchine said, ‘See the music, hear the dance.’ That quote lives in my head and spirit. It’s what makes ballet more than technique.
It’s about creating something that leaves fingerprints on people’s souls. ”
I chew, her words rearranging things in my mind. “And that’s what you want to do? Leave fingerprints on souls?”
Petra nods. “Ballet is about more than performance for me. I love the ability to connect with others. Every artist is just trying to make their loneliness useful, to transform isolation into something others can recognize as their own.” She takes a sip of water, then continues.
“Ballet, to me, is about moving people in ways they didn’t know were possible.
And…” she hesitates, voice dropping. “My dad loved the music even if ballet remained a bit of a mystery. When I dance, it’s like talking to his memory. ”
I don’t rush to fill the silence. When I finally speak, my voice carries certainty. “He’d be proud. That’s not even a question.”
Petra’s eyes find mine, and for one heartbeat, the restaurant disappears. “I hope so,” she whispers.
As our conversation continues, I realize that ballet and hockey might be distant cousins wearing different costumes. To be superior, both demand chasing something bigger than yourself while requiring unflinching discipline.
I set my fork down. “On the ice, when I’m playing my best, all the noise vanishes. There’s perfect clarity. Winning is almost secondary. It’s a gift to have that place where everything makes sense.”
We lapse into an easy quiet, chewing slowly, savoring each bite and quiet moment in this place of refuge.
By the time our plates are cleared, I can’t decide if the heaviness in my body is from short rib pelmeni or the realization that our time tonight is coming to an end.
As we stand, Petra shrugs on her coat, then hugs Yuri goodbye.
By the time we leave the restaurant, the city has darkened, only streetlights illuminating the sidewalks. Early autumn air carries promises yet to be revealed, and the sidewalks have traded urgency for tranquility.
“You realize you’ve ruined me,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Every other dumpling in New York is now dead to me.”
“Tragic,” she says. “Shall I send condolences to Chinatown?”
“I’m serious,” I say. “Pelmenis have officially raised the bar. It’s like when you listen to Tchaikovsky and then someone makes you listen to ‘Baby Shark.’”
“You said you haven’t listened to Tchaikovsky before.”
“Well, it’s what I imagine he sounds like in comparison to just noise.”
Her laugh cuts through the quiet streets surrounding us. “You really just compared a pelmeni to Tchaikovsky.”
“Both life-changing,” I say. “One involves violins. The other involves sour cream.”
She shakes her head, smiling. “I’m beginning to suspect you could make an argument for anything.”
“Not anything,” I correct. “I could never defend kale. Some battles are unwinnable.”
Our conversation starts to fade as we approach her building. When we reach her stoop, Petra stops and turns to face me, keys in her hand but attention elsewhere.
“Thanks for walking me back,” she says, voice low.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Thanks for today…and the company…and introducing me to my new favorite dish.”
“You’re welcome. Next time, you get to pick our adventure.”
“Next time?” I ask, hope creeping into my voice.
Her smile doesn’t waver. “Next time,” she confirms.
The air between us thickens. Her eyes search mine. My heartbeat quickens. This feeling, whatever’s been building between us, doesn’t feel like a question anymore. It feels inevitable.
I lean toward her, moving slowly enough to let her decide how this ends. Her breath catches, and she tilts her chin up, lips parting. We’re past the point where words could improve this moment.
And then…her phone erupts in the most aggressive ringtone I’ve ever heard. Petra blinks awake from whatever spell we were under. She glances at her screen, and the name “Gavin” glows there with unwanted persistence.
Of course, I think. Of course.
I step back.
Petra hesitates, eyes blinking as she looks up at me. “Goodnight, Liam,” she says finally.
“Goodnight, Petra,” I reply, my tone revealing nothing of the small earthquake happening behind my ribs.
She turns, unlocks her door, and disappears into her building, leaving me alone on a sidewalk that suddenly feels too wide. The latch clicks shut with the finality of a period ending a sentence I thought was still being written.
I stand there for a moment, watching the light come on in what I assume is her bedroom window, listening to the distant sound of traffic and my own disappointed breathing. The taste of pelmeni still lingers, but it’s already fading, becoming a memory.
On my walk home, I resist the urge to dissect what just happened, to replay the almost-kiss. Instead, I pull out my phone and open Spotify, searching for something I’ve never looked for before.
Tchaikovsky’s “Serenade for Strings in C Major” fills my earbuds as I navigate the empty West Side streets.
The music starts gently then builds until I understand what she meant about drowning in beauty.
It’s the soundtrack to falling for someone who might already belong to someone else, and I let it carry me home through the October night, learning what heartbreak sounds like when it’s played by a full orchestra.