Read this excerpt from a short story about Annabelle Josephine, a former ballet dancer, who had become apart of a young woman’s memory, as Annabelle had lived her own life as a Broadway dancer. And that shared bond forms between Claude Baptiste, and, a young woman named Celeste Marivaux who falls in love with Claude for a short amount of time.
I had found myself, thought in and of my own, kind of, placidness, and where even, as everything, I thought I had known, so very spurned merely in different, oscillations, and fragments of my own, outwardly Inveigled comprehension. I had, thought so much in the of the year, 2019. And that, I had even started to, develop more amorous feelings for, Claude, Baptiste, and after three years this had, been in a most searingly profound way in while speaking to Annabelle Josephine.
And how he’d become something of more than just, that of someone to confide, in, but after I had found myself reading Virginia Wolf To the Lighthouse I had began to wonder, more heavily on many besotted Calamities. And that somehow where, my own, cat I had neglected for many years had become quite, Importune. And how I had often I had had started to see this would become the one, through a kind, of articulation shaped by knowing Claude, for many years. and there had been one instance in particular that had made me dream of Montmartre..
And that, so preponderantly, I moved through my house with persistent unease, checking the locks, drawing the curtains, and listening intently to every unfamiliar sound. And where, so Theoretically it been that Claude had a way of listening to me, even that it seemed that my own sickness, through each stage, had, become more, in how it would effect many slates of me, my existence, and outward, appearance. And for when one that I thought I had seen that made my own countenance, change, in many of transit moments, in finding from time to time where, I had become filled with a bit of trepidation though more verbose, and more pensive and Unwavering musings.
And that it I had, often, imagined, where, through each, dance, and movement, even that it had been a ballet, I thought about Annabelle, and how’d she grown up with her mother Sarah, as a little girl, and had ever since, being under her mother’s Tutelage —she had seemed, as that who would become, though in alike, in and of many particularities, that had been consumed by own propensity and inclination.
And one, and that it seemed, there had been silence where she, had, become more, that of woman, who believed that love was in itself, as so very, encapsulating. Around him, I spoke more honestly, laughed more freely. Even that where my own body, and corporeality had become frail, and that my whole ability as it seemed to function normally had become seemed, more arduous. I had began to see, what, were, many times, I thought in so much, that, my own life, had seemed, one that through some derivative, and insipid relaying. . And for where, that of Annabelle, had, thus had embroiled me through in and of her most tumult days as a Broadway dancer, and that this had been in and of such, torpid self reflective, and remittance, that been where such bouts of descension, felt like great woe and affliction. and that unto where, she only been but a young woman and that, it had been in where, such, the many troubles that followed, her.
And as it been, with, seeing that she needed to, survive on her own. , and how that in and of her days, had been and that unto often times, whenever Annabelle thought most in spending so much of her time devoted to dance, giving up, her life as a Broadway dancer, she often, had, found something of her own, peculiarities, and that which had been resolve, and innermost strength, as this was what, had been her life, more, like you’d one imagine, that this had, been where, she found, that, where, her becoming renown, perhaps had seemed like a chance in a million, in city, in as big as Manhattan, and that, where, what, had, made, her long walks home, all the more, ones through a umbral of shadow and, obscurity.
Our relationship grew in the in-between moments: long walks where our shoulders brushed, late nights where silence felt like its own language. I told myself we were just friends, but my body knew better long before my mind caught up.
Romance didn’t announce itself; it settled in. One evening, rain tapping at the windows, we sat close enough to feel each other breathe. He looked at me then—not hurried, not unsure—and I felt that of my own, the question pass between us without words. When he kissed me, it was gentle, as if he were asking permission not just from me, but from the moment itself.
That night, I made love to Claude Baptiste, and it felt less like a beginning than a continuation of everything we’d been quietly building. There was tenderness, warmth, and a sense of arrival. I remember thinking, as I rested my head against his chest afterward, that love doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it simply opens a door and lets you step inside.
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