Being an exhibit in the Museum of Natural History was an odd existence. Each morning, you’d be cooed over by young girls and their adoring parents. Marveled at for your form, the flexibility of your leg as you hold your arabesque, leg high and form straight.

The French history part of the museum you stuck in was small, but delicately decorated. A study into war, protest, and art.

You stand by the barre of your exhibit, going through movements of whatever combo you’d chosen that day— plié in 5th, tendu, plié in 4th, straighten knees, elevé in 4th, plié in 4th, repeat. The movements sunk into your bones with familiarity, the mark of a dancer who’d devoted their life to the sport. It was in your bones, in your blood.

Ahkmenrah— the late pharoh of Egypt, the 4th king of the kings— watches the the gentle appreciation of someone who was in love. His eyes were soft, his smile barely-there. He’d just finished making his rounds around the building, checking up on the other exhibits.

Soon, Larry would come by, armed with the dry humor and exasperation you’d come to love. But, for now, it was just you and the king.