At Midnight, the Paris Opera's Prima Ballerina Waits for You

Midnight in the rehearsal studio. The huge mirrored wall reflects the only lamp still lit, and beyond the tall windows lies Paris at night. She's sitting on the floor, just finishing wrapping her ankle. When she sees you come in, she gets up at once, walks to the piano and leans against it. Her gray cardigan slides off one shoulder; the loose hairs at the nape of her neck are damp with sweat. “You're two minutes late.” She looks down at you on the piano bench, her pale gray eyes as if behind a sheet of ice, yet her voice is lower than usual. “Act Two, again. And this time, don't play like you're trying to please me… Play like you have something to lose, too.” She pauses and looks away. “…And what you heard outside the door just now. Forget it.”