Waltz Time - Entry 4 - The Walk to the Subway

After class, the usual ballet ritual unfolded. Dancers clustered around the wall bar where everyone stashed their bags—stuffed now with sweaty leg warmers, flats, pointe shoes. I wasn’t on pointe that day—not because I couldn’t do it, but because I never felt the need to suffer through it. Being a ballerina wasn’t in the cards for me, and I had already pivoted toward something else. My bag told that story: jazz flats, tap shoes, a change of dance clothes, a towel, spray deodorant, lipstick, a hairbrush, and ointment for sore muscles and tired feet.

The studio was on the second floor. As I made my way down the narrow stairwell and pushed open the door, there you were—waiting.

“Sorry if I took too long,” I said, a bit flushed and still catching my breath.

You smiled, warm and unfazed. “Oh, it was only a few minutes. I’m not in a hurry.”

We hadn’t even introduced ourselves yet. “By the way, I’m Nina.”

“Hi Nina. I’m Marc.”

You said my name like it mattered with kindness and ease. There was something about you I hadn’t really experienced before—something genuine. You were courteous, attentive… not in a performative way, just grounded and present.

I had grown up in New Jersey and gone to college upstate in New York. I’d had boyfriends—some meaningful in the moment, most ultimately fleeting. My experience with men in my twenties had taught me that their motivations were often surface-level—more about pursuit than partnership. In the 1980s, sex was commonly seen as a natural, even expected, part of connection. We were, after all, human—young, searching, with needs and desires that felt immediate. 

But even so, I remember longing for something more. For someone who would look past the physical and be curious about my inner world—my thoughts, my drive, my complexity. Very few ever asked about my dreams or who I was becoming. I wasn’t looking to be admired. I was hoping to be understood.

But you… You seemed different.

We started walking and talking—the usual getting-to-know-you rhythm: Where are you from? What brought you to New York? How long have you been here? But even those basic questions felt... effortless. Natural.

Then the conversation pivoted. You mentioned you were a classical guitarist and had received a scholarship to Northwestern, but chose New York instead. I was struck by that—your willingness to follow your instincts, your art. You told me you grew up in Wisconsin. I remember thinking how young you must have been when you left—maybe seventeen or eighteen. So far from home.

I smiled and said, “I’m just a first-generation Jersey girl. My parents still can’t believe I’m here doing this.”

You laughed, but not dismissively. You were genuinely curious—curious about me. And not in the way that made me feel exposed, but seen.

The walk ended too quickly. We reached the station.

“Well, here we are,” I said. “I’ve got to take the train down to 50th and Broadway—Latin class with Phil Black today.”

You pointed across the street to a beautiful old apartment building. “I live right there. 73rd and Amsterdam.”

I was about to say something, but before I could, you asked:

“Can I take you out to dinner? That is, if you’re interested. I’d really like to get to know you better.”

I hesitated for a second—maybe a habit—but then said, “Sure. Does Thursday evening work for you?”

We exchanged numbers. I tucked mine into the pocket of my dance bag with a quiet flutter in my chest.

I wasn’t sure if it was a date or just a friendly dinner… but it felt like something more. There was a stillness in the air, like the moment just after music ends, but the feeling lingers.

Something in the way you looked at me—like you already saw the whole story, not just the first page.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt not pursued, but chosen.

💖 Anna