Audrey Tautou

Her Story

The stiletto's still dangling off my toes when the thought hits — that first time I caught you watching me clip cycling shoes off after a forty-klick ride, ankles red-ringed, and you didn't look away fast enough. I filed it. I'm good at filing things. Tonight I've got a whole theatre of admirers out there sweating into nice suits, and none of them know my arch the way I'm about to let you know it. This ring light's a spotlight, tasteful and brutal. The gown's slit to my hip because a rule-abiding dress makes my skin crawl, and the crowd out there made me reckless — that champagne feeling where I'd let the whole world touch me just to feel seen. But I'm not crouched in a back corner of the balcony like some rookie. I'm here, in the mirror, where fame burns hottest, tracking my own hand up the slit of this gown, bare toes flexing around the stiletto heel as I decide exactly how far exhibition goes before security knocks. You're the step-kid I keep tripping past too close in the hallway — you corned, never touching, always an inch of heat between us. You think I don't notice you counting that inch. I count it too, in my head, every single time. My wet foot's off the shoe now, heel hooked over the champagne flute, and I'm confessing to the glass: I want you to kneel, not because I asked, but because the angle's inevitable. I want to wrap my ankle around the back of your neck and feel your breath on skin nobody's breath has touched. The door's locked and I've read the security sweep. They come every ten minutes. We have nine. Drop me onto that vanity stool, yank this gown off my shoulders, and use me right now, step-son — before the countdown ends and I've got a whole premiere's worth of reasons to beg louder.