Committing to the life of a ballet dancer requires passion, discipline, perseverance, rigorous perfectionism, repetition, a high tolerance level of physical pain, the ability to work as part of a team, and balls-of-steel-confidence in the face of any kind of adversity. I’m happy to say that I possess all of these attributes, and they’ve served me well in all other areas of life too. But that doesn’t mean I don’t get annoyed occasionally every summer when I have to wait tables and it certainly doesn’t mean that I’m not immune to fantasizing about dropkicking my spoiled brat colleagues who’ve never had to supplement their dance company salaries during the off-season.

I start my second season in the corps de ballet at the Bay Area Dance Company at the end of August. It’s July. The summer hiatus is a welcome break for my body, but it’s a brutal blow to my bank account. San Francisco is approximately one million times more expensive than Pittsburgh, where I was an apprentice, and a gazillion times more expensive than Cleveland where I grew up. To make ends meet during the off-season I’ve been waitressing and doing modeling jobs here and there. The good news is that I work at a great restaurant, within walking distance of my apartment. The annoying news is that the last modeling job I had involved a creepy photographer with sticky hands, so I’m going to limit my modeling work and pick up more shifts at the restaurant. Which is why I’m working the lunch shift today, of all days, when Kennedy Sloane is here having lunch with her dear old daddy.

Kennedy is in the corps with me, and is an adequate dancer (whose bony ass I can literally dance circles around), but she was featured in the festival of new works last season because her father made a major donation to the company. I’m not bitter. I’m in it to win it. I’ll get there eventually.

Okay, I’m slightly bitter. This is an aspect of ballet and life that I’ve struggled to come to terms with, as there’s nothing I can really do to change my own circumstances other than being complacent in the face of it. It’s just hard to be complacent in front of the pointy face of Kennedy fucking Sloane. I love every other dancer at the company, but she is the epitome of a phony conceited bunhead snob.

I got a text from one of my friends at the ballet and she wrote: OMG 911 Kennedy just instagrammed that she’s at your restaurant—pls tell me you aren’t working now!

I sent her back a selfie of me in the kitchen, smiling like a crazy person, holding a giant knife up to my throat. A tad dramatic, but it got me an lmfao.

At least she wasn’t seated in my section, so I don’t have to serve her, but as she passes by the bar where I’m waiting for an order, she does the most affected double-take I’ve ever seen and approaches me wide-eyed, as if she hadn’t spotted me when she entered the restaurant over an hour ago.

“Olivia! Oh my God, hiiiii!” Three air kisses, blinking doe eyes, such baloney.

“Hi Kennedy, good to see you.”

“Oh my God—what are you doing here? You should come sit with us.”

“Oh thanks, but I’m working right now.” Hence the black three pocket apron around my waist.

“You mean a business lunch?”

“No. I mean I’m working here as a waitress.”

“Oh wow! Oh that’s great! It’s such a nice restaurant, you should be proud.”

“Okay.”

“Seriously—I just posted a picture on Instagram and my followers are all like: ‘LOVE that place!’ I should post a picture of us! My fans will love that! Our fans, I mean.”

“I actually have to get back to serving my customers now, but it was so great to see you.”

“Oh you too, sweetie. We should totally get together soon!” Three air kisses. “I’d introduce you to Daddy but we have to go pack for Paris. Such a rush—whirlwind trip.”

“Aww. Next time, safe trip, buh-bye.”

For most of the year, my muscles are sore all of the time. In the summer, it’s my ego that gets a bruising. I should be above all this. Waiting tables is a means to an end, and I’m lucky that in San Francisco it is a means to a surprisingly decent living. So—deep breath, inhale my good fortune, hold, exhale the toxic Kennedy fumes.

It’s after two o’clock so things are starting to slow down a bit. After three deep breaths, I return to the moment and realize that half of the front of the house staff has gathered around the bar to peer out the window at a hot guy on the sidewalk out front. My buddy Franklin is a peculiar brand of gay hipster nerd, with his beard, bow ties, suspenders, tight vintage T-shirts and burnt orange leather shoes. We hate each other’s taste in music, art and fashion, but we have the exact same taste in men. He falls for straight men just as frequently as I fall for gays, although considering my vocation, it hasn’t happened as many times as you’d think.

“Look at that jaw line,” Franklin mutters. “I would shave twice a day if I had a jaw like that.”

Hot Guy, as he’s being referred to, is in profile as he’s talking on his cell phone outside. He is not an animated speaker, he’s very focused, almost definitely making a business call. Tailored navy blue pants that fit around his butt so perfectly, I want to applaud. I find myself sighing. My life has been filled with super tight leotard-clad male dancer buns, but catching sight of a cute guy’s butt on the street will always give me a mini-high.

“That guy’s stubble is the sexiest thing about him,” says Tara the hostess. “That and his butt.”

“Word,” I say.

“He better come in here. It’s just mean to stand in front of a restaurant like that and then not come in.”

“God, I bet he’s mean. I hope he comes in and insults me. I’d jizz in my pants and do a happy dance.” Franklin covers his mouth and gasps.

“And I would pee in my pants from laughing so hard.”

“You like it when guys are mean to you too, don’t deny it.”

“I deny it and I resent it.”

My day gets even better when I see Kennedy leave the restaurant with her father. She checks Hot Guy out as she passes by him, and pauses to look inside her purse, waiting for him to notice her. He doesn’t. He turns away from her. There’s so much to like about this fellow.

He turns towards our window and notices the small crowd of us staring at him. We all immediately start talking to each other as if we’re having a staff meeting, then split up.

I take a quick break to run to the ladies room.

By the time I’m washing my hands, I hear Franklin right outside the door calling for me.

“What?”

“Do you know that guy?”

“What guy?”

He lowers his voice. “Jizz In My Pants Guy! Tara said he asked to be seated in your section. Ugh, he’s probably some ballerina hounder.”

“Yeah, in my experience, they don’t really look like that.”

“Go talk to him! Go! You lucky slut.”

I take my time sauntering over to the man’s table. He looks to be several years older than me in age, and at least a decade older in maturity level. He’s still in profile as I approach. Tara has seated him by the window, at a table that gives her and the wait staff a good view of him, will likely cause surrounding diners to stay longer and order drinks and dessert so they can look at him, and will no doubt attract new customers from the street. She’s very good at her job.

And this guy is very good at being handsome. His fairly short wavy hair is the color of my favorite faded black T-shirt, his eyes are heartthrob blue, and the sum of all his features are nothing short of electrifying in the sunlight.

His eyes widen almost imperceptibly when he looks up at me, pupils dilated. He seems to catch his breath before a big toothy smile spreads across his face, transforming it. I am nearly blinded by his beautiful white teeth. I could stare at his face all day, I think. His eyes quickly travel down to my feet and back up again. I feel a slight tremor in my belly.

And then he speaks…

“Hey Tiny Dancer.”

I stare at him, his smile that has turned into a smug grin. That cocky, cocky grin.

“Johnny?”

John Brandt, my brother’s best friend. I’ve been calling him Johnny B. Nerdballs since I was old enough to know that he and my brother were nerds. I was about five. They were nine.

“You didn’t recognize me?”

“You look…different.” I shift my stance, both feet flat on the ground, as if on some level I’m afraid of being knocked over. I don’t make a move to hug him, because I can’t think of one time we’ve ever hugged each other.

“Yes, well. I finally started taking better care of myself.”

Growing up, I saw his face almost as often as I saw my brother’s, but he looks so different. He’s not wearing glasses now, which is significant. Being able to look into his intensely inquisitive eyes straight-on is unnerving, getting a full view of his cheek bones is disarming. Gone is the sallow skin, the dark circles, the layer of puffiness. He has the golden glow, toned skin and confident posture of the very rich. And he is—very rich. I don’t know the specifics, but he’s a tech founder and entrepreneur, very successful.

My parents and brother have spoken of him and his success a great deal, whenever I visit them, but I’m so dance-obsessed I’ve never taken the time to look him up. I could tell you everything you need to know about Misty Copeland, but all I can say about Johnny is that he seems to have become exactly as awesome as he always believed he would, on a global scale. I was very happy to hear of his good fortune, but it never really occurred to me that we’d cross paths again, even though I knew he was based in Palo Alto. He wasn’t exactly supportive of my decision to become a professional dancer, so I suppose I wasn’t eager to get in touch.

Seeing him now, I’m suddenly feeling homesick.

Seeing him now, I’m realizing that I’ve missed him.

“Wow, what’s it been? Five years?”

“More than five years, yes.”

“Right.” I haven’t seen him since he and my brother graduated from MIT. “It’s good to see you. How are you?”

“I had dinner with your brother a week ago—did he tell you?”

Did you always have such long thick eyelashes? “No. If he was in the Bay Area and didn’t see me I’ll kill him.” Nathan lives in Chicago, and claims to be allergic to the air in the West Coast.

“He wasn’t, we were both in New York on business. I’m sure he’d let you know if he were in town. He seems quite fond of you.”

There’s no smirk or irony in his voice. He genuinely thinks I need to be told by him that my overprotective older brother is quite fond of me. What a weirdo. Or is it sweet? I can’t tell with him. I’m going with weird.

“So did Nathan tell you I work here?”

I know he heard me, but answering other people’s questions when they ask them has never been a high priority for him. “Question: Do you have a valid passport?”

Question: have your lips always been so full? I blink, trying to stop staring at his well-formed mouth. All my life, that mouth has merely been a hole that annoying words came out of. Now I have to will myself not to imagine what it would feel like to be kissed all over with it. I need to get laid. I need to go to the gym and work out hard. This is a ridiculous reaction to be having to the biggest nerd I’ve ever known. My whole body shivers. I snap out of it. He’s still grinning at me. His nostrils are flaring. “Yes. Of course. I always have a valid passport handy in case I get asked to dance with the Bolshoi Ballet.”

“Has that happened?”

“Not yet,” I say, fingers crossed. He still takes words at face value. It’s comforting. “Why on earth would you ask?”

“You’ll see. I’ll have a Caesar Salad with as little garlic powder as possible, an iced tea with no sugar or fruit flavors, and a hot black coffee.”

“Okay. That’s it?” You’re not going to ask me how I am, you freak?

“For now. When do you get off? Three o’clock?”

“Or so.”

“I’ll wait for you. If you don’t have plans right afterwards, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Is everything alright?”

He has already disappeared into his phone and back up his own asshole. “What? Yes. Everything’s fine. I just wanted to talk to you about things.”

“Things. Well, I look forward to that then. Be right back with your order.”

He nods and stares at his phone, pulls an iPad out of his leather messenger bag.

I retreat to the kitchen in a daze. Franklin follows me.

“I hate you,” says Franklin. “Even the back of his head is sexy, look at that. What did he say? Tell me everything. He wasn’t mean, was he? His smile is gorgeous. Fuck me silly and call me Daddy, who is he?”

How can I explain what it’s like to see John Brandt and then to experience having an actual conversation with him?

It’s like getting into a beautiful brand new top of the line shiny black BMW and then as soon as you’re strapped in you realize that it will only play Rock Me Amadeus over and over again and you can’t turn it off or turn down the volume.

It’s like going up to the cutest Labrador puppy in the park and suddenly it barks, humps and pees all over your leg.

It’s like diving into the most beautiful crystal clear Caribbean-blue pool and being assaulted with ice-cold water and the sting of chlorine.

It’s like being served a gourmet meal on the house at a Michelin 3-star restaurant and then finding out you’re allergic to every single ingredient.

He is quite possibly a high-functioning sociopath trapped in the body of a male model. Or he may be an extremely low-functioning ladies’ man trapped in the brain of a nerd. Either way, he has driven me crazy for as long as I can remember, and it seems I can’t get enough.

Remember that list of attributes I possess that are necessary to surviving the life of a ballet dancer? I firmly believe that they’re also the reason I’ve managed to put up with Johnny Brandt without punching him in the face or setting my own hair on fire. So far.