lost.
The ocean was forever.
So was the river.
He went to forever.
Where nothing feels.
He rolled up his left wrist and gazed at the daisy tattooed there. He remembered the day he had it inked. And remembered a dark night when he pressed the blade of his jackknife to its petals and almost cut it out. He turned up his other hand and looked at the black K.
These things happen and they are terrible things to bear.
Still the waves kept coming.
Give it here, they said. Live your life. Feel your life. Or else go to your father’s forever and feel nothing. It makes no difference to us.
He looked at his wrists and the ink permanently in his skin. He would die with these. I will set you in my presence forever.
Dais is forever.
I go to her.
A break in the ocean’s sound made him look up. The water seemed to be drawing back, as if waiting. The shoreline in its wake glistened and bubbled.
Your father broke and left. You broke and left, but then you came back.
You stayed and fixed.
You are not him.
Give it here now and feel your life.
Let him go.
“All right.” Erik’s mouth shaped the words with no sound. A large wave crested and fell, rolling up the beach. Nearly reaching his bare feet before melting into the sand.
“I feel like I’ve given you nothing to make you feel better,” Christine said.
He put his hand on top of hers, twining their fingers. “You gave me everything.”
WILL TEXTED ERIK on a Monday afternoon: Come over to the theater. Dais and I want to show you something.
“This is romantic,” Erik said as they led him into one of the studios. The lights were dimmed and votive candles lit all around the perimeter of the space. “Am I overdressed?”
“Terribly,” Will said. “Take your pants off.”
“Quiet, you,” Daisy said. “Take a seat, honey.”
Curious, Erik sat on the floor beneath the barres. “What’s going on?”
“Professional consultation,” Daisy said.
She hit the music. Three precise guitar chords, a single drumbeat and the hair rose up on Erik’s forearms. It was Jimi Hendrix’s “The Wind Cries Mary.”
He set his chin on his kneecaps, hugging his shins. He hadn’t seen Will and Daisy dance together in over fifteen years. His stomach curled in anticipation, mixed with an odd fear they wouldn’t be what he remembered. But of course, they were.
Complex and percussive phrases layered on top of the lazy, syrupy music. Quickly, Erik was drawn in, tasting the flavor Will and Daisy were going for. It wasn’t romantic. They danced primarily in unison and the partnering was about mutual strength and support. As usual though, Erik was pulled into Will’s movements. Through Will he felt Daisy’s hands, limbs and weight. He watched her, but he was Will.
Our best performances together were from me being not a partner, but a mirror.
Floating in the flickering candlelight, absorbed mind and body in the dance and mesmerized, Erik realized what a gift they were giving him. Or returning to him, rather: all the lost years of their partnership. The collaboration he had missed. By letting him watch this embryonic version of a pas de deux, he felt the last, small sins of the past finally forgiven. Set free on the wind and let go forever.
They ran out of choreography at the end of the bridge. Will set Daisy down and they became human and ordinary again.
“What do you think?” Will said, breathing hard.
“I think it sucks,” Erik said, wiping his eyes on his shoulder. “Where’s the rest of it?”
Will tapped the side of his head. “In here. Meanwhile, I need you to build a set.”
“Not a set,” Daisy said as she toweled off her face. “An experience.”
“Something wild,” Will said.
Erik rubbed the back of his neck, chewing on a germ of an idea. “How wild?”
“Woodstock wild.”
“Let me drop acid and think about it,” Erik said.
It helped the Fredericton Playhouse was doing a run of the 60’s musical Hair and Erik’s mind was already in an expansive, let-it-all-hang-out mode. He came to the ballet’s early rehearsals and took copious notes. He played Hendrix in his car and through his earphones while running. He pored through production books, leafed through Daisy’s photo albums from her days at the Metropolitan Opera House. He researched the hazards of a multi-storied, vertical set and how to overcome them. He quizzed every member of New Brunswick Ballet on what would make them feel safe and what would get in their way.
“This isn’t going to be a nude ballet, is it?” he