La Petite Fleur

Commence

Steve opened his eyes the next day, confused as to why he was lying on the floor. With a groan, he pushed his face away from the hardwood floors, forgetting about the close proximity with the coffee table, and felt the back of his head crunch against the wooden edge. Stunned, he fell back to the floor for a second, skull throbbing. With a moan of pain, he pushed off the floor again and sat heavily on the sofa. He rubbed his head gingerly before pulling the pillow off the floor as well and holding it to the lump forming at the back of his head.

He rested for a few minutes until the throbbing subsided before slowly getting to his feet and heading to the corner of the bedroom that housed the sink. He bent over the sink and splashed his face with handfuls of cold water until it ran down his forearms and dripped from his elbows to the floor. He turned in the mirror to feel the growing tennis ball sized lump when he got a glimpse of his watch. Almost noon. He was going to be late.

He raced out of the bedroom and grabbed a fresh change of clothes from his duffel before sprinting back and changing. He washed up before hurrying into the living room and grabbing his basic phone (that Natasha had taught him to use), a page from the file, his Swiss Army knife, and his keys. He had taken a step outside the door before jogging back and grabbing his bomber jacket.

Once outside, he locked the door and pulled his arms through the jacket sleeves. The spring air still had enough bite to bring goosebumps to his forearms, but the sun was warm and cheery. Unlike the previous night, the sky was free of clouds and was a pale shade of chalky blue. He glanced at the page in his hands to find the address before starting the short walk. As he walked, he folded the page and stuck it in his jacket pocket along with his knife, phone, and keys.

The sidewalk was filled with the sounds and smells of Paris without much traffic. As he passed other people on their various paths, some inclined their heads and mouthed "captain." A few even greeted him in French, and he would return a smile even if he didn't know what they were saying. In a park, a cluster of young children ran by laughing and brandishing play swords at one another. If only war really was that easy, he thought. Sooner than he would have wished, Steve reached his destination and entered through the glass doors.

Bright sunlight streamed through the grand windows lining the side walls, the pale ceiling vaulted away high above his head and made the chamber feel much larger than it must have been. The floor under his feet had seen better years but was in such commendable care that the dark wood still shone and not a board creaked. Rows of seats filed one after the other down to an orchestra pit and stage beyond, mostly hidden by heavy purple curtains with golden tassel ties as large as himself. The stage was built from wood, darkened by stain and age and polished by use. A balcony stretched the length of the three walls unoccupied by the stage, and above the balcony was a booth that sported large lights and speakers.

Steve let his feet carry him to a seat in the balcony to watch the proceedings on stage. Even though he was relatively far back, his view of the stage was incredible. It was elevated about seven or eight feet above the main floor and well illuminated by the sunlight and stage lights above it.

As he watched, the purple curtains drew back and a herd of thirty or so young women filed into the front row of seats. They chattered among themselves in what Steve assumed was French since no familiar words reached his ears. One by one, they finished what they were doing at the seats and ascended a set of steps to the stage. The youngest of them looked to be about seventeen and the oldest might have been twenty-six. They were all dressed in black leotards and a few had chosen to wear paper thin black tutus. All wore nude colored tights and pale pink pointe shoes.

An older woman, maybe late fifties, with a tight graying bun at the back of her head stood before the girls and began to lecture them in French. The dancers responded and fled like butterflies to their places to begin their routine. Twirls, leaps, pirouettes, and pointe shoes filled the next hour. At times, the dancers appeared to flutter delicately across the stage and at other times, they would gracefully sprint across the stage with only a small skip-hop at the end. The whole thing might have told a story had there been music or costumes, but sadly, those were lacking today.