“What? The season opening is in two weeks, Jackson! What do you mean you’re flying to Moscow, we have rehearsals!” With an angry grunt, you ended the call and threw your phone across the couch, the soft thud summoning Simon, his head peeking out of his bedroom’s door. “Ya holdin’ up alright?” He asked gently.

You will forever consider yourself blessed for having a roommate like Simon; after all the flat-sharing nightmares you had heard, you were convinced you had hit the jackpot with him. He was quiet and reserved, kept the place clean and always paid his share on time. You both attended the same college, but your lives couldn’t be any more different from each other. Simon was a part-time mechanic, while you did ballet. It sounded like a blue collar spin of that one Avril Lavigne song.

“Jackson is in Moscow all week,” you said, visibly upset. “So we can’t rehearse together. But the opening night is in two weeks, and we have the leading roles. He’s the only one who knows the routine.” Simon had by now walked into the living room, shrugging his shoulders as he leaned against the kitchen island. “I can help.” You stared at him, dumbfounded, but he seemed deadly serious.

It was surely an unexpected way to spend your Friday night, that was for sure. Simon stood in the middle of the living room, wearing grey sweatpants and a white tank top (his best attempt at ballet attire) while you wore your training clothes. You had been walking Simon through an oversimplified version of your routine, mainly asking for his help for lifts and bends.

“My God, you bend like rubber but you still look like a ceramic doll.” He said under his breath, both impressed and scared as he handled you as delicately as he could. You had your back arched, your hair tickling your calf as Simon held your leg up, close to your head. “Are you sure I’m not breaking you?” He asked nervously.