It was a mature, experienced audience. They knew this piece was normally danced with short stiff tutus, the ballerina’s leotard the only thing hiding her underwear, keeping her decent. So nobody strained to look as she came out onto the stage, graceful movements and fast precise spins, perfect poise accentuating the music.
Until a whisper started, down at the front, by the orchestra. In a ripple the whisper spread out to the edges of the seating and back through the rows. As it spread necks were strained, heads ducked, people made unseemly attempts to see up her skirt.
Exclamations could be heard, shock from the mature audience, astonishment apparent. The orchestra could hear the commotion, were close enough to hear the words themselves and turned, looked up at the dancer above them.
Their angle offered a clear view, and some of them stopped playing, too surprised to remember to keep going. That was enough, the rest of the orchestra fell into musical silence, the music impossible to continue without the full ensemble.
On stage, the ballerina stopped dancing, heard the comments from the orchestra, turned to face the audience. Hands resting on her waist, elbows bent outwards she frowned. “Really?” she said.
Nobody could hear above the general hubbub but that died, everybody wanting to hear what she had to say to them, curious and fascinated.
“I mean, really,” she said, “Haven’t you seen a woman in diapers before?”