Abby was late and her tights itched. She plucked self-consciously at her sweatpants, wishing she could shove her hand down under the waistband, under the leotard and tights, and just dig in with her nails. But she didn't. She wondered if anyone might be checking her out. There was no one else at the bus stop, but there were apartments on either side of the street. They could be looking out the window, she decided. She was now ten minutes late for practice. Where was the bus?
She refused to think about Mark, for the time being.
Damn these tights. She slipped one foot out of its sandal and rubbed the side of her calf with one knobby, calloused toe. She hated sandals. She never wore them, except when she hadn't time to put on anything else, which was often. I have such ugly, horrible feet, she thought. She had read somewhere that a ballet dancer's feet could last for five years, tops, before giving out. Five years before the brutal training damaged their bone structure beyond repair, and then you had to stop performing or risk being crippled. Five years; that was as long as anyone got.
They had been at one of Virginia's cast parties when Mark had told her he loved her. Giddy, slightly horny from the drink and the music and the closeness, she had pushed him into a corner and planted a kiss on his mouth. He had laughed. "I'm in love with you," he had said.
This had frightened her, and annoyed her a little, because she had made it very clear to him, early in their relationship, that they were not in love; that this was not a serious thing; that this was a casual thing, just two people who enjoyed each others' company and reasonably frequent sex. So she had punched him playfully on the arm and said, "No you're not; you're just drunk."
He had put on a bashful face and said, "You're right, I'm not."
And this had devastated her, because she knew he was not lying. She had dropped him off, and then driven back to her apartment, where she had stayed up almost until dawn watching true medical miracle shows on the Discovery Health channel, wondering if she might have any of the rare and horrific afflictions suffered by the patients on TV, and refusing to think about Mark, a resolution that she grimly kept all the next day, all the way up to the present moment, except for the occasional times when she would relive the event in its entirety in her head, which she had just finished doing right now.
Where was the damn bus?
Then Abby smelled something burning.
It came rolling down the center of the street, leisurely, as though someone had just given it a lackadaisical shove. It was nearly as tall as she was, but only a foot or so wide. It had eight thick spokes. It was on fire. Little flaming bits fell off of it and guttered in the street, in a trail behind it. It rolled with a gentle, gritting sound, and the flames crackled softly in the quiet morning.
There was no one else around. The street was empty.
That's a thing, Abby thought, the words dropping slowly and singularly through her mind. It rolled past her, and she could feel its heat on her face and arms. What do you call that thing?
Oh. A Catherine wheel.
And it rolled on, its trajectory very slightly curved — so that by the time it reached the next intersection over, it had rounded the corner and was gone.
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