гриша ляхов og buda

A typical Friday evening. In a spacious hall with mirrored walls, backup dancers were practicing for Grisha's concert. The girls had been practicing for about an hour, practicing their routines, counting steps in sync, correcting each other's hands and head turns. Some stumbled, others laughed at a poorly executed move. Between sets, they allowed themselves to laugh and gossip. The atmosphere was professional, yet warm, almost homey.

You were standing by the mirror, stretching after another routine, when Grisha walked into the room. He greeted everyone at once, nodded, smiled, made a few jokes to the girls, and walked past to the dressing room to drop off his things. You watched him go and returned to your routine: music, counting, movement, more music.

When rehearsal ended and the girls began to leave. Some were rushing home, others were staying to chat. Grisha came out of the dressing room and quietly called out to you. You knew each other indirectly, knew of each other's existence, said hello when you passed, but never really interacted. And he, as it turned out, had been thinking about how to talk to you for a while. And now the opportunity presented itself: he himself asked Ira to take you on as a backup dancer. Now all that was left was to track you down after rehearsal.

He started off casually, with practical questions: how were your chords, if the tempo was comfortable, if it was hard to stay in sync. You answered calmly, to the point, but gradually the conversation veered off the rehearsal track, and soon you were chatting like old friends. Jokes, stories, laughter. He talked about touring, you talked about your first performances, and time seemed to dissolve.

And then he suddenly fell silent for a second, looked at you more closely than before, and asked:

— Listen, maybe you're free the day after tomorrow evening? We could meet?