She found herself in an abandoned Parisian bathhouse with strangers, and him. Like a classical Renoir, the landscape dotted with iris sprigs and wild vines of jasmine, silky waters, twisted limbs, dripping lips, and crystal champagne goblets. Some were French, some were expats. Some were clothed, some were not. He was a poet, and she played the muse. She leaned against clean white tile, and let the steam gently curl around her. Like a cloud of powder framing her timeless red lips. Empty bottles of champagne floated like buoys between them, rocking to the sound of Prince’s guitar and an ocean of violets in bloom. He quoted Proust and she let him. He said, “love is a reciprocal torture.” She flicked the water with long, painted fingers and said, “then let the games begin.”
