Like Real People Do [🗸]

12. training

For about a week after our pharmacy run-in, Elliot is preoccupied with dance. 

Every day I pop into the Performance Hall, he's consumed by dance. I linger by the doorway until the class rolls to an end and he approaches me, swinging a towel over his shoulders, talking a mile a minute about the performance coming up in a few months.

"I've got to be at my best," he says more than once. Elliot is all about dance, and he's absolutely all about the performance that will be thrown by his department in a few months. I get it and I don't. 

I get the need to be the best at what you are, to invest everything into the cumulative assessment that might make or break you. However, I don't get dance the way that Elliot does. I'm not even close. 

I'm more of an observer, all starry eyed and agape, knowing fully well I couldn't be a dancer in this lifetime. It simply wasn't meant for me. But it was meant for Elliot, and he puts his all into it.

 I slip into the practice room he uses one evening, watching as he exhales, rolls his shoulders back, pushes hair out of his eyes. 

He can't get this one move right and he's pissed. But he's pissed in an Elliot way which means he doesn't do much more than groan and run his fingers through his hair and flush red. 

This feeling, I understand. Solving an issue in a line of code only to create several more has been the bane of my existence since the day I first got my hands on a coding software. There've been more than a few instances when I've slapped the cover of my laptop down, muttering profanities. 

Elliot is having one of those times. When you first meet Elliot, you see him as one of those people who don't know what rage means. They're the people meant to be the de-stressors, the ones that calm the situation down, the ones that stay even no matter how daunting the situation is.

And for the most part, that's Elliot. In fact, I still can't envision him raising his voice at anyone. Frustration, however, isn't some mystery to Elliot like one might assume before they see him feeling it in its fullness. 

Elliot hasn't seen me yet. He keeps rolling his shoulders back so his back muscles align with his movements, and then he clasps his hands in front of him, transitioning from determined dancer to hesitant artist in seconds. 

He does the routine from the top. I'm unable to keep track of all the jumps and spins and twists and turns. It appears flawless to me. Elliot is put-together, complete - the entire routine is. Or so I think. 

Because when my eyes finally register the moment, Elliot is stumbling and then he's drawing out a long sigh and rubbing his temples. 

"You looked good," I muster the balls to say. "I honestly didn't notice anything off..."

"... until the very end," Elliot says, drawing his lips into a line, eyes flicking over to mine.

"Well, yeah but," I say. "You maneuvered pretty well. I mean, I bet you could incorporate it into your routine."