Adele Gaston

She is sitting in front of me at the quite restaurant on the upper west side in Manhattan. Her thin aristocratic hands are holding to the crystal glass filled with champagne that plays with the candlelight. She is slightly turning her beautiful head revealing a profile that unravels her pristine provenance: a nicely shaped nose, a delicate chin and the dark feather of the eyebrow.

Her light silhouette looks like it was cut from the dark paper and glued in to the redness of the wall paint. She is so feathery that it seems like it is a danger for her to sit next to the candle. I think that she could just fly away in flames and never come back.

She is my friend and I like looking at her. She has this dark elegance about the way she looks: black smoky eyes, big, in a shape of some outlandish gems. Dark diamonds? I've heard there are diamonds that are almost chocolate in color.

Her boyishly slim figure and narrow shoulders keep the mystery of the real woman. There is nothing about her that is tangible or openly reveled to the observation of the crowd. You need to know her to be able to open a little and elegant box with the name written in French with golden letters,: ADÈLE Gaston

I like to picture her in the dark men's suit walking on the streets of Paris. I think that the men's outfit and fedora would suite her the same way as they did to George Sand *. Well, Adele was born in France and it seems that the sound of an accordion is following her steps.

'' So, how are you my friend?'' Adele is looking straight at me with her big dark eyes full of genuine wonder. The French cadence of her voice strokes the funny waves around us. 'Bonjour!'' I am trying to speak to her in French and I hear her loud and free laughter. '' Well, you know how he is, never understands what real ballet is all about ..,'' Adele is starting to talk fast and non-stop about the man in her life. She is speaking really fast, lifting her arms up, leaning her body towards me, and engaging the space around her in one vivid dance. '' Yeah, I know what you mean,'' I say with a sigh, but she does not listen. She knows a lot about ballet and when it comes to someone who does not appreciate it she becomes really furious.

Adele is a ballerina, with years of stage performances in Berlin and Russia and with undying love for everything that is beautiful. I met her a while ago, and I learned that not everything that is fragile and tender can break easily.

She came to New York City absolutely alone, with no friends or family and with the only desire to become successful. Her only passion was ballet. Unfortunately, how it always happens, her way in this city was not paved with golden awards. She met the wrong people, fell in love and was swept away by the night life of New York. It seems like the main destruction in her life became her only passion. She traded her love for the heavenly art for the passion towards somebody who did not fully understand and appreciated her.

Adele was deeply in love, and entire universe could not help her to think clearly. She could not see that the object of her desire and passionate love did not deserve to own even one lace from her silk Pointe shoe, not to say the entire Adel Gaston with her talent and artistic soul.

I was myself, lost and lonely, surrounded by people who I could not connect with and with the feeling that I was loosing the purpose of my life. I remember the evening when we met and our first conversation.

We both attended some affair in Manhattan that happened to be very boring. I wondered among the unknown people and eventually came to the dark room that seemed to be absolutely empty. I sat down on the sofa and here there were: two big shiny eyes looking at me with the genuine wonder. '' Parle de France?'', she asked me in a quite tone. '' Qui'' , me trying to speak to her in French, and her blunt laughter . We liked each other right away and with time we became friends.

Since we'd first met we had a lot of conversations. We talked about art and love and tried to pin point the main destructions in our lives. We both could relate to one another. Both recently came to New York, both had been wasting our time with people who did not have an idea of who we really were.

The time was passing by and Adele became very unhappy. Someone who she loved dearly started to treat her with disrespect and eventually they split apart; thin and tender ballerina was left alone in the big city of dreams. She was in despair, with no real place to stay and seemed absolutely broken apart. I tried to help her with good advice and she really appreciated it. Then, something happened and she disappeared. She did not call me, nor could I see her among the people who used to be our social circle.

Time passed by, and I changed the circle of communication to another one; all of a sudden everything became clear and possible in my life.

One day the telephone rang, and the deep voice with the French accent said: ''Hello my darling friend, I think we have to meet, I have so many things to tell you.''

And there we were, sitting in front of each other in a nice restaurant in Manhattan. Adele did not change a bit and was still radiating France around her. Her perfume, her dark sleek hair in the pony tail, her aristocratic hands.... Adele Gaston was the same fragile ballerina. '' So, how is life?' I asked her trying to look deep into her chocolate eyes. '' You know,'' she answered, ''I am teaching ballet in one of the most prestigious schools in Manhattan. I live in nice apartment on the Upper West Side, and sometimes I like to perform on stage. I am totally happy.'' ''O, yes!'' she continued, '' I am dating this awesome guy, but my God, he does not have a clue about real ballet.'' She started to talk not-stop about this new man in her life and by listening to her and looking at her I realized that whatever will happen in our lives we will continue to be good friends and no matter who Adele is in love with, she will never again, trade her passion for the heavenly art for the love towards someone who does not know how to open an elegant box with golden letters written in French: Adele Gaston