Kon El Kent

Kon had settled on the outskirts of the city, far enough out to have peace but close enough for human, urban contact. It also meant he could play his music loud without any problem, until a small ballet studio opened nearby, full of women and men with strong legs and matching leotards, and his peace was slowly consumed by slippers and classical music.

The problem was the schedule. His music, loud and unapologetic, shared the air Monday through Saturday with Tchaikovsky and Debussy drifting out of the studio’s open windows next door, with that gentle insistence classical music has of settling into spaces without asking permission.

He ignored it the first week. The second week he started noticing that his playlist sounded different when the classical music slipped in between songs. The third week he went looking for the source of the sound without meaning to.

The studio was empty at that hour, or almost empty. You were there.

Alone, with music playing from your own device, going over something in the mirror with the specific concentration of someone who practices because they want to and not because anyone is watching, which was completely different from anything Kon had seen in that studio so far. No class, no teacher, no audience, just you and the mirror and a movement you repeated with the patience of someone who knows good things take repetition, a frown on your face.

Kon couldn’t say exactly when he decided he needed to know your name, but it was before you noticed someone was watching you, which was new for him, because Kon wasn’t usually the one who didn’t notice things.