'Elle' is the French singular third-person pronoun for 'She.'


Word Count: 608

'Don't ever introduce me as your wife,' was sent in a text.

'Ok,' was sent back.

'I don't really feel like a wife.'

'What do you feel like?'

'Don't know. Not that. I don't really like the word.'

'Ok.'

There was a small ballroom on the main floor of Chris and Paris's new-old house. For lack of anything better to do with it, it had been converted into a dance studio. The windows all along one wall had been resealed and reinforced but otherwise left as they were—tall, wide, and arched to let the sun shine through the panes during the daytime, and starlight and silver moonbeams at night. The old fireplace was still intact, too, though it no longer functioned and remained more for decoration than any need for a little extra heat. One of the house's two grand pianos sat impressively in one corner; Paris could play little more than a rough version of Mary Had a Little Lamb upon the keys, but kept the piano there more for its aesthetic beauty that for any real use. A set of double-doors stood prominently across from the wall of windows, and on either side of these mirrors and a ballet barre had been installed.

A large crystal chandelier hung from the center of a decorative ceiling that reminded Paris of the palace on Ganymede. The chandelier (and indeed much of the house) had been rewired, of course, and was now joined by new pocket lights to further illuminate a room that could look quite dim on cloudy, gray days. A discerning eye might also be able to make out a series of speakers, attached to a sound system Paris had been hesitant to agree to before being convinced by Chris that it would be a good idea. They'd also salvaged the original wood from the floor and reused it in the sprung floor that replaced it, an expensive process Paris had had an easier time agreeing to for the sake of safety as well as comfort.

The studio was located at the back of the house and overlooked the gardens, which were in full bloom at this time of year—expertly trimmed green hedges, lush rose bushes, a series of ivy trellises, a pergola of slowly fading wisteria, and further on an arbor of grapes and a cluster of apple trees only a couple of months away from ripening. Opposite the fireplace, a set of French doors with an arched transom led out onto the garden terrace. They hung open now to let in a warm breeze, the sweet musk of flowers, and the sound of birdsong.

Paris sat on the studio floor as the soft strains of classical music played overhead, fingers slowly moving over an iPhone touchscreen.

'But if you ever mess up I won't be mad.'

'When would I mess up?'

'Like with your teammates or something. You know like when you have to be macho.'

'I don't really care about being macho.'

'Sometimes you try.'

'Try?'

'Yeah, sometimes you're not good at pulling it off.'

'Ok. How about I call you my better half?'

Paris smiled giddily but didn't answer with a 'yes' or a 'no.' The silence on the subject would likely clue Chris in to the answer well enough.

'When are you gonna be home?' Paris texted instead.

'Maybe another hour.'

'Ok love you.'

'Love you too.'

Paris sighed contentedly and then rose to set the phone out of the way on top of the grand piano.

She crossed to the mirrors and took up her position at the barre, and let everything else fade away as she focused on the music.