Re: Studio: Wren & Ryan
Ry's mama, she wasn't made for dancing no place, or not recent. She was tired and worn-away places. Rubbed, like life thinned you out the longer you kept going like a dollar bill worn to fluff. But you could see it on her, the way she'd been made before. She glittered, and Ry understood why she was loved over and over. Why she needed to be loved. It was simple, not a lot of thinking, right. Ry, she didn't sit and wonder over her mama, and why her brothers, they all had different papis. She just knew.
She didn't know what Wren was made up of, but she saw the outside. Pink and white and caramel, perfect like a sugar-plum. Perfect-looking didn't mean shit, right. Perfect-looking threw up in the bathroom regular, knees on tile and a finger hooked down her throat, heaving up her apple and coffee until she was so skinny she couldn't pirouette without getting dizzy.
Ry, she didn't make herself throw up to make herself better. She was what she was and it was just everyone else who didn't see it, che. But ballet didn't look, right. It didn't judge, other than who could stand on their toes for hours and who couldn't.
"Not lonely when it ain't just you," she said confidently, hand wrapped around the arch of her foot and leaning into the stretch. "Lonely's just what you feel when you ain't meant to be alone just then, right. And it's temporary, right." She grinned at that candle-bright smile. A man, right. Or a woman, didn't matter, it was a look she'd seen her sister wear. Like being given diamonds, except the kind that couldn't get hocked right before pay-day.
"Nah, you're right. It makes sense, you can feel it. They were trying, che. To make you feel when they wrote it, or nobody would go on trying to remember it after." Ry's smile was unconscious, her forehead uncreased. "You're good, chica. All sense here."