The cafeteria was full of unfriendly young people sitting in chairs and Mr. Ballet couldn't put down his tray.

They were students and over time they had taken Mr. Ballet's dignity. He could no longer sit at their tables. He left his tray on top of a trash bin and left the cafeteria, quickly, on the toes of his small jazz feet.

The security guard watched him and thought about how Mr. Ballet probably soaked his aching body in a Jacuzzi. He was very serious for such a small-footed person.

The security guard had huge feet. She was required to move quickly among the cafeteria rooms to create the appearance of more than one security guard. She supposed it's unlikely that, in a marriage, a man could have smaller feet than a woman.

When Mr. Ballet came back to the cafeteria later that same day, he was not wearing his black leotard or black jeans. He had changed into a dress shirt and tie.

The cafeteria wasn't crowded the second time, and Mr. Ballet took a seat at an empty table. Some adults might have liked an important newspaper, but not Mr. Ballet.

The guard removed her tie and crushed it into her pocket. She brought her tray of chicken over to Mr. Ballet's table. She did not ask to join him, because they were both adults. Mr. Ballet did not address the guard for a long time, even when she rattled her red plastic cup.

I could have enjoyed this, Mr. Ballet finally said. He looked frustrated. He carried his tray of chicken over to me, at the slop belt, and walked away, quickly, on the toes of his small jazz feet. The guard followed behind him, slow and fat, and when she dropped her tray onto the belt some gravy splashed my uniform.

I am sorry, she said.

Don't be sorry, I said.

She followed Mr. Ballet out the double cafeteria doors. I believed that Mr. Ballet was a short man who believed in big pride, like a hard-humping dog. The guard was not small hearted, either.