Screw Your Courage

God, he was adorable. “I’ve photographed the whole thing,” Casimir explained. “There’s a table in the other room where I do all the listings for the shop. Since I was going to photograph several pages for the listing, I just did all of it. So it’s in my archive, along with the records from the sale, and what I found out about the person it belonged to.”

“The stage manager was the designer?”

“No, they were married. The designer died years earlier. All of that material might’ve been lost.”

“But the manager, he kept everything.” Misha was still clutching the book.

Casimir couldn’t stop smiling. “As far as I can tell, it was a really good marriage. They worked together for decades.” He glanced at the book, then made eye contact again. “It’s given you ideas?”

“Oh yes. All of us at the dance studio, we can barely dress ourselves. When it comes to costume and scenery, we’re like this.” He made a flailing gesture to accompany a clueless expression. “We look at other productions and steal things.”

Casimir laughed. The dancer was smiling back at him. He didn’t want this visit to end. “Do you have lessons this afternoon, or could I offer a cup of coffee? Or tea?”

The smile got warmer. “I don’t work the rest of the day.”

“Then could we … ?”

“I’d be happy to stay for coffee. Or tea.”

Casimir was about to say something – he didn’t know quite what – when he realized what he was hearing. He closed his mouth, blinked, and turned his head. Through the front window he saw, of all the freakish things, rain.

Misha followed his gaze. “Oh.” He set the sketchbook on top of the stack of schoolwork on that little table. “I walked here.”

“It probably won’t last long.” November in Los Angeles: one week might have lows in the forties and chilly gray skies, and the next might have highs in the nineties and shriveling sun. “But it’s good you don’t have to go right away.” It wasn’t even close to four o’clock, but if anyone else arrived, they could ring the doorbell. Casimir stood up, went to the front door, and removed the sign. It was pouring out there. Closed the internal door, turned around, and raised his eyebrows on a shrug. “You’re welcome to stay.”

“I won’t be in your way?”

“Not in the least. You’re welcome to find something else to read while I finish grading. Do you prefer coffee or tea? Because I really do have both.”

“Tea,” Misha said, smiling again. “Black tea, with cream?”

“Ooh, the same way I like it. Want to come through to the kitchen? I try not to have beverages out here.”

“Oh, of course. Thank you.” Misha glanced at the sketchbook again. He hated to leave it. Told himself it would be perfectly safe here, in the closed showroom, while he had tea with this absolutely wonderful man.

When the tea actually arrived – served not in the kitchen, but on a covered patio overlooking the backyard (which he’d’ve loved to see in the sunlight; it was alive with colorful flowers, defying autumn) – it was not in mugs. Casimir brought a tray with a classic Russian tea set, all rose-colored glass and gilt except for the actual teapot. That was porcelain, with a rose-pink glaze and a ballet scene on its belly, accented with gold. He set it on the table and watched Misha’s mouth drop open in astonishment. “I almost never have an excuse to use this.”

“Where did you? How did you?” The sentence fragments escaped in an embarrassingly high-pitched tone of voice.

Casimir was increasingly sure that this particular ballet teacher, arriving on this particular day, was the best thing that had happened to him for a long time. He wanted to pat the man’s shoulder. Or, more accurately, grab that ponytail and pull his head back and kiss him. Instead he said, “Another estate sale. The person had about twenty different tea sets, and I was there specifically for an English souvenir set that had a Shakespeare theme. I sold that almost immediately. But they had this one too, and I just liked it. They told me the scene is from ‘Swan Lake.’”

Misha leaned in, studied the tiny artwork, made a ‘could be’ face, and sat back. “It’s beautiful. You like pretty things.”

“Yes, I do. It’s not always easy to talk to men about pretty things.”

“I like pretty things too.” Misha had his head tipped back. He would’ve been thrilled if Casimir accepted the invitation and kissed him. But this was the first time they’d met, so he wasn’t disappointed when the other man simply smiled and sat down.

The tea was delicious. They talked about their jobs while they sat and watched the rain. After pouring them each a second cup, Casimir went back to the kitchen, returning with a rose-glass plate of cookies. Rain was still falling when plate and teapot were empty. Misha helped carry the dishes to the kitchen, glanced out the window, and made an apologetic face. “I can call an Uber.”

“Or stay.”