Re: Studio: Wren & Ryan
Wren knew what it was to be looked at. She knew what it was to be looked at, looked through, looked inside of. She knew what it was to be spread before a person like a banquet, the things inside her the feast for the evening. She remembered, and those days were long gone now. Things made of memory, foundations, blocks that built the woman who stood there now. And she was stronger, oui, than the girl who Ryan had met. Then, then she had been in the middle of it yet. She had stepped off that banquiet table, only to be put upon it again. She had changed, and she supposed for the better. Wren felt safe now, and maybe that showed in the somber grey eyes that regarded the bright and beautiful girl that stood before her.
She didn't feel the need to be less, to lose softness or curves, and she wondered a little at the life of the pretty and trained dancer at the barre. Two children, and her body would be forever soft as a result, and she didn't have the dedication to plies that would make it better. "Why do you come?" Here, when she obviously had better teachers elsewhere.
"I think I'm like a book. Do the words matter as much when they aren't being read? When the spine is closed and no one can see what's there?" It was a thoughtful musing, not spoken smartly, but Wren thought it was romantic to be pages, fingers along the yellowing slips and words indented like with old typewriters.
She watched as Ryan stretched and slipped back into something of unearthly beauty. "Don't the demands make you better?"