A Short Story- September 24, 2010

There's a little old man I know. He's short and gray, but no one would ever know that within that little old English man from Engalnd is a passion for ballet greater than anything.

Every Saturday morning, I fly into the studio with my red curls pulled back with a wide, purple headband. The minute I enter his studio, I feel like I am no longer in Texas, but rather abroad is Europe for his accent is so pleasant and cheery and the little bombay cap and bulky grandfather shoes he wears makes me feel as if I was walking the streets of London and just happened upon a quaint little ballet class taught by a little English gent.