MOULIN ROUGE

Still a charm and grace about her,

almost the same as that first night at Moulin Rouge.

 Her father had brought her, hoping for a match.

Breathtaking in red velvet on her father’s arm,

no one guessed she wasn’t part of their class.

He in his silk top hat, cigar in hand

made no excuses when he held out his hand.

Modestly she took it, not knowing by doing,

the ruling Madame’s sovereignties would

pass into her innocent coquettish hands.

His status and manner beyond reproach, married yes,

but no matter for a woman of her class.

No questions were asked,

the decision made when to her father; he tipped his hat.

Her heart pounding when she lifted her head,

his eyes meeting hers

answered any doubts she may have had.

 Wine and dinner Mademoiselle, perhaps a waltz or two

 as the evening wears on, he asked?

He’d stolen more than just a heart

 when he’d reached for her silk-gloved hand,

 lifting it slightly kissing her hand.

A tightly corseted gown made it difficult to breath,

 yet with that single kiss

the soul within her breasts did heave.

It was common in those days for a gentleman

 such as he to have a mistress on hand.

 He’d taken her a virgin, teaching her well.

 She made the unpardonable error of loving this man.

For her, the years passed lavished with love.

 Educated in manners, introduced to society,

 escorted to matinees, concerts,

 all the fashionable theater’s latest plays. 

Any luxury was hers including a penthouse apartment

 across from La Moulin Rouge.

For twenty plus years he’d kept her, loved her,

adoring her beauty, never straying.  

 He appeared each evening at half past eight,

 usually staying very late.

 Once or twice a year, his wife went abroad.

 They’d travel to Monte Carlo or Madrid.

  He loved to gamble; she brought him luck. 

 For her, the blind side of love

 filled endless nights of passion

 in magnificent suites,

the touch of desire on rose petal scented sheets.

This night was special,

their anniversary of twenty years passed. 

 She’d hoped for the day,

 but nothing had been said.

It must be a surprise?  She had her bath drawn,

a mixture of milk and rose petals to soften her skin.

Toes barely touching the floor her maid

 gently drying and powdering her body

 with his favorite perfume.

Then casually draping

 a favored delicate pink dressing gown

around the same body as twenty years passed.

 A favorite pearl comb he’d bought her in Monaco

loosely lifted her hair.

She waited in the house he’d bought her

 on Saint Augustine Street, number eight.

Half past eight came and passed.

 He’d sent no note, no flowers,

 no notice of his intent?

Half past twelve, denial stopped!

 Icy fingers of twisted fate

 shattered her brain seeding madness.  

  He’d been drifting in late, not staying as long;

 even missing a day here and there.

 S he’d hid disappointment well;

 a tear never shed until  his cab door shut.

Twenty years, twenty years, ticked in her head!

The screaming headache,

 each time

 her head knocked against the muted blue wallpaper

 “he’d” picked out! 

Insanity was in control now

shoving her against her bedroom wall. 

She knew should she live, what life laid ahead.

 Her eyes telling the dark ending

 in the soft blue eye shadow;

 turned purple in death shallow glare.

A limp hand still held one shoe; the ones he’d always untied.

 Her comforter askew; the pills on her nightstand! 

They’d find her here slumped,

in her hand a torn bit of stationary with only two words

 scribbled there~

MOULIN ROUGE

Rachealgrace Adams………………….3/08/10……………©……………………………….