The ice felt like heaven on my knees.

I woke up this morning in a fetal position crying in pain.

I didn't think that choreographing would put so much stress on my legs.

I was wrong.

I guess the constant getting up and showing the dancers their moves over and over-- as well as the dance classes-- had put a lot of wear and tear on my legs.

*****

I sat in Eric's office, looking at his diplomas on the walls, while he wrote down the name of some doctor at county hospital who'd help me cheap.

"He's not as good as me," he said, handing me the sheet of paper. "But he should be able to help you out. Sorry I can't do anything more here. Insurance rules, you know?"

I took the paper from him and left.

I don't know what it is about him, but something rubs me the wrong way sometimes. Maybe it's that "I'm so much better than you are" look that he gives you. When I talk to him it's like I'm something he has to scrape off the bottom of his shoe.

I know I shouldn't be so judgmental. After all, he is helping me find somebody to fix my knees. But shoot me-- I think he can be an asshole.

*****

The last budding ballerina is strapped into her mother's car and driven out of sight.

Juliet and I stood by the door, too tired to move.

"What a day," she said. "I'm getting too old for this crap."

"Can I buy you a drink?"

She gave me a hard look.

I scratched my head. "I got a couple of sodas at my place, you want one?"

She nodded her head and we walked behind the studio to my place.

We both fell asleep on the couch, ice packs on our knees, watching the basketball playoffs.