Don't you *chérie* me, you bastard !
>- You don't know what I have done
You'll hate me. I guarantee it.- Did you punch a baby ?
“I’m going to get married soon.”
At that moment, the poet’s heart shattered.
It hurt too much
Now that it had finally happened, however... she had no choice but to nod her head.
“Oh, is that so? I’m happy for you!”
The dancer looked at her, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear, and said, “Are you sure?”
Her eyes were large and imploring.
“Are you *really* sure?”
And the poet had never been surer. She didn’t want... to ruin the dancer’s happiness.
Surprisingly, it was the dancer who faltered. Her fingers trembled about the handle of her tankard, and her eyes began to swim with tears.
“If... If I get married... You won’t be able to be my number one not-fan anymore,” said the dancer.
“But I love dancing...!” the dancer exclaimed. “I love dancing more than anything — and I love it when you watch me...!”
The dancer stared at the poet, imploring.
Her lips trembled.
But the poet did not know what she was pleading for.
The poet’s throat convulsed, and all she could say was, “Congratulations.”
Being a poet, it was almost funny she could not think of any words.
Wasn’t that her job?
But words had forsaken her now.
"It was hard to say who that ill-placed, insensitive ‘congratulations’ hurt more.
The poet hated herself for it.
Why hadn’t she told the truth?
And so, just like that, the dancer left the poet’s life.