“This is fantastic!” the man said, adjusting his monocle. “I’ve never seen Tchaikovsky’s masterpiece before.”
“Right. Uhm, so about that...” she looked down at her shoes.
“What is it, darling?”
“I’m sorry, I think I should’ve been clearer. This isn’t a showing of The Nutcracker—but rather the Nutcracker!” the woman said.
“That’s somewhat disappointing. No wonder we have front-row seats. Is this some sort of…different version?”
“Well, in a way.”
The lights went down.
The curtain rose.
Twenty ballerinas glided onto the stage, tiptoeing in perfect synchronization with the music.
The melody swelled.
The dancers weaved a tapestry of movement—pas de quatre, grand jeté, double cabriole derrière.
The audience entered a state of dream-like awe.
The lead ballerina spun forward until she was caressing the very edge of the stage.
She leapt—face first, mouth open—onto the front row.
The man screamed.
— Bastian Espada