L'Opera

We met at the Paris Opera House when you came out from back stage, tired of demi-plies and battement tendus. You threw your arm into the street, waving, "S'il vous plait! S'il vous plait!" Your bun was coming undone and I could see the muscles in your calves defined by your leggings. I wanted to whisper s'il vous plait in your ear, hear you moan in mine. It was raining and you'd forgotten your s'il vous plait in the dressing room but I was willing to share. We stood there, on the Place de l'Opera, close enough that I could smell you, wanted to see if you tasted any different. When I kissed you, your lips were soft and warm, left traces of pink s'il vous plait on my jaw. When I asked you to come home with me, you nodded, "S'il vous plait." So I wrapped you in my jacket, watched your leggings disappear into thick wool and silk lining. We made s'il vous plait while the rain pounded down and the Eiffel tower flashed brighter. You left the next morning. I was sleeping, dreaming maybe. You pulled on your leggings, flagged down a cab in the rain.