The room flooded with ballet dancers, young girls and boys were about ready to go home. The young adult dancers either star struck or tired. Charles watched them disappear out the door, with all his photos taken and interviews recorders he was ready for the story to be published. The year 1968 was a slow, lonely year for him. Charles was always admired from a view but not up front. They liked his porcelain skin that flushed with peach and his hazel eyes that danced along every view. His lips like a doll that always held a cigarette or a lollipop. His hair soft, short and jet black. Oh, how young he looked, only 21 and he looked 15. Almost all men liked him. Charles walked to the door, about to leave to his apartment when he bumped into something. "oh god, I'm so sorry!"