Waltz Time – Entry 15: The Show

Waltz Time – Entry 15: The Show
“Onstage, I found my confidence. Offstage, I found you.”

The morning we left for the resort felt like stepping into another world. I had packed my dance shoes, a few dresses, and my favorite lipstick—the one that made me feel just a little braver. The bus idled outside the studio, humming like a promise. Everyone was buzzing with excitement, performers clutching coffee cups and garment bags, laughter spilling out into the city morning.

You were already there, clipboard in hand, checking off names and schedules, calm in the middle of the chaos. Even then, you carried yourself like someone who had done it all before. When you saw me climb aboard, your expression softened. 

“You made it,” you said quietly, and something about the way you said it felt personal, as if you weren’t talking about the bus at all.

The drive was long, but the mood was high. The resort came into view like something out of a travel brochure, with lush lawns, glistening pools, and bellmen in crisp uniforms. I had never stayed anywhere like that. My room overlooked the lake, and for a moment, I stood at the window to breathe in the calm water, to feel the sense that I was finally part of something bigger than my own struggle.

Rehearsals that week were intense. The ballroom stage was transformed into a production floor, complete with lights, props, and the kind of glossy enthusiasm only corporate America could buy. The music was upbeat, the choreography snappy, and every move had to radiate confidence. You ran the show with precision, timing cues, directing lighting techs, smoothing over egos with that easy charm that everyone responded to.

I tried to focus on the work, but I could feel your eyes on me now and then—steady, watchful, like you were seeing more than just my performance. Between the music and the mirrors, it was impossible not to feel the current building.

The night of the show came faster than I expected. The ballroom was unrecognizable, transformed from a dull corporate space into a shimmering stage, complete with spotlights, velvet drapes, and an audience of sharply dressed executives who looked ready to be impressed.

Backstage, the air buzzed with nerves and hairspray. Dancers stretched in corners, vocalists hummed scales, and stagehands whispered cues into headsets. I could feel the electricity in my body—the way it always came alive before a performance. No matter the venue, the ritual was the same: the hum, the heartbeat, the breath before the first step.

You came by just before curtain, headset around your neck, clipboard in hand. “You ready?” you asked, with that half-grin that always made me forget I was supposed to act composed. I nodded, maybe too quickly. You leaned in just slightly and whispered, “You’re going to kill it.”

The lights dimmed, and the music began, bright, brassy, and unapologetically cheerful. We danced through choreographed smiles and sweeping gestures meant to inspire an army of salespeople to “believe in possibility.” The audience cheered on cue, clapping in rhythm, caught up in the glitter of it all.

But somewhere in the middle of that performance, under the heat of the stage lights, I felt something shift. Maybe it was confidence, or maybe it was the way I caught you watching from the wings, arms crossed, your expression somewhere between pride and something deeper. I had worked so hard to keep the professional line clear, but there it was again, that look, unspoken but undeniable.

After the final number, the applause was deafening. We took our bows, all sequins and smiles, and I felt that rush, half adrenaline, half relief that comes only after the final curtain. Backstage, everyone was laughing, hugging, celebrating the end of three long weeks of work.

And then there was you. You found me amid the chaos, still holding your clipboard, but now your voice was softer. 

“You were amazing,” you said. It wasn’t the kind of compliment tossed around after a show; it carried weight, intention.

Later that evening, at the after-party, the air was looser, lighter. People danced, drank, and flirted under soft resort lighting. You stayed close, never crossing a line, but always near enough that I felt your presence. Every time our eyes met, it was as though the noise around us faded for a second.

When the night finally wound down, you offered to walk me back to my room. The hallways were quiet, the echo of laughter trailing behind us. Outside my door, we stood for a moment that stretched longer than it should have. 

You smiled, almost shyly this time. “Goodnight, superstar,” you said.

I smiled back, my heart still racing from more than just the show. “Goodnight, boss.”

And as I turned to unlock my door, I heard yours open behind me. For a moment, I hesitated… and then I found myself walking toward your hotel room.

💓