Swan Lake minutia dominates her speech. Never asks me about me. So I tell her Tchaikovsky was pure genius. But she goes on how she should have been chosen as Odette, not Liz. I set down the phone and twirl out the door to the mailbox. I pet a stray tabby and chat with a neighbor. I return with an envelope to commentary about her callused feet and crooked toes. I open my acceptance letter to Juilliard. I silently shriek. She tells me her tutu still fits, the one her mother made, not knowing my destiny because she won’t stop yakking.
love this Heather… I’m pulled right into the scene… Well done!
Thanks a bunch, Stella. Glad you liked it.