Jasmine yanked a jumper and a pair of jeans over her leotard a bathroom cubicle and unlocked the door. A mirror stretched across the length of the wall, punctuated by sinks. Claire was standing at one end, hands under a loud rush of steaming water. Jasmine stood a couple of sinks along, unravelling her hair from its bun.
"I think those last ten minutes nearly killed me," Claire said, catching her eye in the mirror.
"God, I know, right?" Jasmine exclaimed through the bobby pins clamped in her teeth, "I've been back for like a month and I still come out feeling like it's my first class."
The sound of the water cut off. Jasmine watched Claire's spine move under her skin as she pulled a paper towel out of the dispenser with a clunk. "Did you practice while you were away?"
Jasmine shook her head, hair falling around her shoulders. Her scalp felt tingly, finally released. "I wasn't allowed to. I would have made it worse."
Claire crumpled up the paper towel and tossed it into the bin in the corner. "I'll bet you're glad to be back."
"Yeah, I am."
Jasmine didn't know Claire that well. She knew that she was better at leaps than she was extensions, and her turns were as good as anyone's in class. She knew that she wore Capezios and had an array of colourful leotards she liked to wear, but she must prefer the purple one the most, because it turned up a lot more frequently than the rest. What she didn't know was what Claire was like outside of dance. She didn't know what she liked to watch or eat. Did she read? Did she have siblings? Did she even live with her family? But, Jasmine supposed she didn't need to know that.
"See you later," Claire said as the door swung shut behind her.
Jasmine caught her own eye line in the mirror and stood, watching. She didn't know what she was waiting for; something grotesque, she supposed, maybe for her face to shift into a monstrous mask, or for her limbs to grow into something huge and suffocating. Nothing happened. She gathered up her bag and slipped out of the bathroom. The corridor was filled with dancers, dozens of leotards and ballet buns and chattering voices. They smiled at her on the way out.
Her legs ached. Did they used to hurt this much? She supposed they probably did, but it didn't feel like they had. In her head, all the dance lessons were rose-tinted and filled with graceful legs and perfect pirouettes, where everyone was friendly and she'd never struggled to get her extensions high enough. Jasmine felt clumsy and tired. Blisters were already forming on her feet. The street stretched out ahead of her and a deep dread filled her stomach at the thought of having to walk it. Her jacket hung heavy on her shoulders. She watched the wheels of cars spin as they came past, watched her own feet as they took her where she needed to go. Her phone was cold in her hand as she pulled it out of the pocket it had been waiting in. She turned it on. There weren't any notifications, but she swiped through a few apps anyway.
She stumbled as she stepped on her own shoelace. A man across the street scoffed. She held his gaze as he walked, until he looked away. She bent to tie them back up, bag slipping from her shoulder and thumping onto the concrete. Kneeling, she pulled out her water bottle and sipped. Jasmine was brushing off her jeans, not looking ahead of her when she heard the voice.
"Hi."
Her head snapped up, meeting the eyes of a much less dishevelled-looking Maisie Marriott. "Oh, hi."
Maisie smiled. She was wearing a matte lipstick, some kind of deep pink. "I'm not stalking you, I swear," she said, noticing the look on Jasmine's face.
"Right," Jasmine said, "I, uh, wasn't thinking that." They stood, watching each other. Maisie was shorter than her by a good few inches, but that didn't seem to mean anything. Maisie held the eye contact like she'd never blinked in her life.
