Silent, silent, not a word, not a sound. Don't wake the others, they cannot know. The secret must be kept, the cries unheard. A muffled laugh, a stolen kiss, hands fumbling in the dark, flesh on flesh, the creak of springs, a whispered promise.
Mon chere.
The night is kind, it hides their secret. Bodies sleep around them, they do not know. They are silent, practiced in the art of deception, quick in their work, smooth, efficient. A quiet gasp, a stifled moan, the only traces of their crimes. When it is over they lie back, breathing slowly, moonlight spilling on sweat-streaked skin, cool breezes playing over them.
Ma cherie.
They don't remember how it started, where, when. It is not meant to be, they tell themselves in the darkness of the room. It's a hollow phrase, something to fall back on when hearts get broken. And they will be broken, won't they? That's how it's always been, the way it should be. You're a silly girl, she tells herself. This cannot happen. It will end up bad. Part of her tells this voice to go away, to leave her in her momentary happiness. The other part accepts the warning with grim certainty. She's been taught it all her life, never give your heart to anyone. Never fall in love. It always ends bad, for everyone. She knows what will happen when the bottom drops out, she sees it every day. When she closes her eyes, she can vision herself on the streets, starving in her flimsy dress, spitting blood in the snow-- all for a few moments of temporary madness.
She doesn't care.
He rests his head on her body, feeling its curves under his palm, watching her chest slowly rise and fall in the moonlight, her eyes gleaming like the diamonds. His diamond. He closes his eyes, the sickly sweet smell of sweat and perfume drifting into his nostrils. It's a smell he's become used to, a smell that is now as much a part of him as it is hers. He smells it on her everywhere, he always has, noting the slight variations in its scent every time, noting when it didn't smell exactly the way he remembered, noting when it changed. He expected it, really, he had to. He wonders how often she lies to him, when and why. Surely she must, at least a few times, but he knows there is no malice in her words, only compassion. A desire to protect them both from the harsh reality they faced.
Morning will come, as it always does, and it will pull them apart for another day. He will see her again, he will see her dance and sing, see her walk away with another man, watch her as she returns, see the look in her eyes as she finds him across the room. They will not stare long, they cannot betray their secret, but the precious few seconds they have across the crowded room will sate their hunger, supply apologies and forgiveness. Then she will disappear again, and they will have to wait for the night to reclaim them, for the few hours they have to be themselves, to hide from the prying eyes around them. It is little time, but it is enough. She looks forward to it all day, looks forward to what they will do when the lights are turned low. They spend the hours talking sometimes, talking of the future, and it is what holds them together. They won't die here, they cannot.
They will never die.
Long after the Moulin has closed it's doors, long after their bodies have turned to dust, the memories will live on. The streets where they met, the room where they slept, all will remain, keeping them locked the way they want to be-- together. Beautiful. Happy.
The Whore and her Bohemian.
Nini et Toulouse.