The movement of the ballet does something to him: the intended movement, but then the passive way they carry the girl with the black hair across the stage by her elbows, her knees dragging behind her.
He weeps to Philip Glass and Tchaikovsky and and The Italians when he takes the train through the Western Line through Ashfield and Seven Hills.
He’s clutching his bag at his chest, his huge fingers rubbing the fabric, remembering how the dance felt against his whole skin, the way he had gripped his knees and he had shuddered with the music. He wonders how it feels for them, does it feel the same? They weren’t crying, that he could see. He doesn’t need to know; he doesn’t want to dance. He couldn’t, he’s huge.
He wonders with shame that he might be spoiled, like being waited on, like it’s all for him and that they are drained at the end of it, crippled in their lack of energy at the end of the service to him, and he has sat and eaten it all gluttonously. He weeps more greatly at this thought, grips the bag again.
He feels his fingernails press into the leather and watches the veins on the back of his hand swell with his force. He remembers the tenderness of the dancers; the subtlety. He wonders if they know how much it affects him; If they could understand his tense, almost violent physical reaction? He wouldn’t want them to know; it wouldn’t be a fair burden, he thinks.