The Dancer and The Painter

The Messy Painter and The Perfect Ballerina sharing a room, What could go wrong?


1. Roommates

She was the clean freak, the dancer, the girl parents wanted. She was straight lines, the placement of a foot right there and the flick of a hand, the landing and the taking off, leaving no room for error. She was the no hair out of place, the tailored jackets, the control of a smile that was just like every other muscle in her body, the strength I felt as she took my hand to shake


I was the slob, the artist, the girl that parents tell not to be like. I was paint on cheeks, on walls, on canvas, I was the curves and restlessness. Everything was an error and everything wasn't. I was the bed head and the wrinkled clothes, fresh off the floor. I was the personification of no control, as I took her hand too and pumped it up and down exuberantly.


"I am your new roommate for the year. Welcome to our lair"


"I know and thank you for the welcome." Her smile becomes less controlled but only for a fraction


We stood there, quietly, our eyes moving and taking in each other.


"You're a painter?" A raise of a plucked eyebrow


"A painter, a graphic artist, a sculpter, the works" I shrugged for emphasis. She nods and goes back to studying, everything. I felt her studying my soul. it seemed like it, at least


"You a dancer?" She nods.


"A ballerina actually." Something seems to light up in her and her glossed smile finally reaches her eyes


And I knew we were going to be the best of friends then

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