The tall, empty room idles patiently, bathed in soft white light, its bare walls illuminated. A tiny clock ticks in the corner and the cold air sits stagnant. Balance bars line the walls. Long panel mirrors give the room a false sense of depth, and just a hint of vanity. Suddenly, the door swings open; someone switches on the lights and the room flickers to life. Aromas of wood and old leather tingle the senses as tiny dancers enter and stir up the air. The light, scuffed hardwood floors begin to permeate with echoes, as one-by-one, little 10-year-old pairs of feet begin to pitter-patter in raindrop rhythms across the room.
Miss Heather is a slim, petite, 20 something girl with a light complexion and curvy hips. There is a calm beauty in her face, which masks her fierce personality. Her southern roots dominate her attitude, and her presence whips up the imaginary dust at her feet whenever she enters a room. Her gaze sweeps over the floor, now dappled with stretching dancers