They passed in the street, each walking with the aid of a cane. A man. A woman. Two dancers grown old.
The big stages had once been theirs. The ballet company had been their life, their conflicted, not always happy family. Competition. Friendship. Heartbreak. Joy.
Ah, yes, joy for the love of the artistry. The thrill of performance. The adulation of a crowd well pleased.
He knew the steps still, as did she. He remembered the lifts. She the throws. They had been a brilliant team. Lauded by critics long past.
“Did you see the latest show?” he asked.
“They are celebrating Balanchine.”
“Yes.”
She just looked into the distance, said nothing.
“I remember him too,” he said.
“Well. Good to see you. Stop by our apartment. George would love to catch up.”
“I’ll do that.”
Their steps went on.
Copyright © 2014 Eric Schweitz
greyzr 
Aw. Sometimes it’s depressing to see old men and women in walkers and wheelchairs, wondering if they had once been dancers or gymnasts or athletes. Sadly, limited time and age is an irrevocable fact of life. Thanks for the response, and keep up the good work!