Last night I went to the ballet.
Don't you just love that sentence. It should be followed by an entire coming of age novel set in 1940's era England.
But really, I did go to see ABT perform last night at Lincoln Center. And it was a delight.
I had to sit on my hands to keep from joining in the choreography. It's hard for me to watch ballet without involuntarily getting involved. It is instinct. Ballet was my first love. The one that got away.
Did not love me back. It's ok, I forgive it.
As I was leaving the beautiful theater after the last curtain fell and heading out into the cold October air I spotted someone on the plaza that made me do a double take.
That same shiny brunette bob I'd spotted at the San Genaro fest was here, peaking out from a calf length grey wool driving coat, worn cape style. One of her hands, bedecked in hammered gold rings, emerging to brush said glistening brunette hair aside. I couldn't see much else without stalking, but I did notice her Rochas gem-embellished d'orsay heels. It was Daphne again!
She crossed the plaza at a clip, clearly the kind of girl at home in heels, and disappeared into a waiting black car and sped off into the misty night. Probably destined for an elevator, doorman building with prewar details still intact.