Touch Me, Daddy
Why won’t he show mercy and look away?
“Enough.”
We freeze as the first bars of music stutter to a halt. Spaced in three lines in the center of the studio, we hold our breath as one. Even Madame, with her hardened eyes and pursed lips, seems to falter at Monsieur Paris’s tone.
“A moment, please.” The way he says it, it’s not a request. It’s a command wrapped up in manners.
“Of course, Monsieur.” Madame Ophelia’s hand flutters at the base of her throat. She marches to the piano, her palm slapping down on the wood. “Listen, class. Monsieur Paris wants to address you. So every bit of your attention is needed.”