Lara stood on her tiptoes, a bow in her hair, leotard at its customary uncomfortable, twirled once, twice, three times and used a darkhaired stranger, standing in the corner of the room as her spot.
Spot: A still and solid object, used by ballerinas and gymnasts to prevent dizziness and keep them steady during pirouettes.
His name was Alexander and if there was anyone in the world less steady and solid, it was him.
Lara learnt to defy gravity and anatomical sense when she was seven. The girl was a dancing angel; she twirled on the worn wood floors of her dance studio, day one of enrolment.
She twirled breezily through life, day one of her existence.
The only thing Alexander had defied by age seven was the odds.
By the time Lara had learnt the art of relying on steady and stationary things whilst twirling around a room, Alexander had learnt the art of falling, crashing and burning.
Ironic, paradoxical even, that on the most important day of Lara’s eighteen years, she was using a dark-haired stranger as her most imperative life-boat, a figurative saviour from stormy weather. Rescued from un-balance, unsteadiness, dizziness, off-centred pirouettes.
Ironic, paradoxical even, that on the worst day of Alexander’s twenty years (a tough, tough call for what had been a decidedly bad life) he was being used as a lifeboat. Funny that there had never been a bigger need for a lifeboat in Alexander’s life than right then.
In a paradoxical, ironic five seconds of stillness and circular motion, reliance and unfathomable serendipity, Lara and Alexander’s worlds collided, one world easy, the other hard.