“This is fantastic!” the man said, adjusting his monocle. “I’ve never seen Tchaikovsky’s masterpiece before.”
“Right, 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—it’s 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