She feels the music in her fingernails

A poster for the ballet "Swan Lake"It’s almost 7:00, and I’m still waiting outside the National Theater in Prague, two tickets to the ballet becoming damp in my sweating hand. Finally, I see her, and I shout her name across the square. She’s running, her heels clacking on the side walk, followed closely by my other friends, teal tulle, hair ribbons and satin purses becoming a jumble as we race up the steps and through the thick red curtain. The usher waves us through—we’ll have a hike. These free tickets don’t mean front row seats, and as we rush up the seven flights of stairs, I joke that I’m not getting enough oxygen. No one else has time to laugh at the joke, and if they did, it would be swallowed by the beautiful sound of a symphony, the sound of hundreds of stings being plucked and tuned. My heart skips a beat and I strain to listen as they tune, a single oboe note ringing clear even from behind the carved doors of the theater.
I finally find my seat in the dark, the faded crushed velvet brushing against my legs, and I can feel the woman sitting next to me glare at me through the antique opera glasses she rented. I feel ashamed for being late, but the feeling is quickly replaced by euphoria, as the orchestra swells with the rise of the curtain and four perfect ballerinas wait motionless for the music to fill their bodies. Suddenly, I am frozen as the dancers move, my eyes the only part of my body capable of fluttering the way their feet glide across the stage. Even my breaths lack the grace of their outstretched arms; they move in perfect symmetry, their tight buns and pale faces a stark contrast to the warmth and beauty the choreography exudes.
The theme from Swan Lake emerges like a loose thread, and everyone holds their breath as the oboe plays its solo. A single ballerina stretches and arches her way across the stage, her body contorting and flowing, even her fingernails seem to feel the depth of the music. And in an instant, the act is over. The ballerina folds her body to the floor and seems to disappear under it, and the curtain comes down. The lights come up, and the faces of the audience mirror my own. We are disoriented and starving to pull the ballerina up from the ground and watch her fly.