Poison

   She is Pierrot: blanched mask with a solitary tear, white robe with black tassels topped with a black collar, big, black faux buttons and long, wide sleeves, with white pantaloons. She is an incorrigible romanticist, an object of Harlequin’s everyday jeers and mockeries, the weeper to make the audience laugh, and a jester whose destiny is to suffer.

    But Pierrot is her temporary image. When the show is over, she takes off her mask, spreads her hair loose, fluffing it with a gentle hand. Her friend helps her free herself from the garment and the robe falls to her feet. Naked and beautiful, she heads to the bathroom where warm shower brings relief to her whole body as milky flows of her make-up slowly trickle on the tiled floor.

    Her hand reaches out for the towel. Refreshed, she returns into her dressing room.

    On a wall, behind the framed Picasso, there is a hidden metal door, a cache. Deep inside, far from the glitter of necklaces, rings, and other jewelry, a small bottle waits, a vial with an inscription in French, "Poison."

   "Are you sure?" her friend asks.

   "I am. This night will be mine."

    Tonight she will be desirable. Tonight she won’t have any rivals. The secret formula of the liquid in the vial is known only to few, and even those few will do everything to protect the secret.

    So, they will enter the hall and Maitre’d will lead them to their alcove, the table set only for two. There will be music playing, the music that she will choose. She will serve him a glass of red sparkling wine -- he won’t be able to refuse.

    Her slender foot slips into the red velvet of a high-heeled sharp peaked shoe.

    What would happen first, a kiss or a swig? she wonders. She wants the kiss to come first. Then, the wine would seem lusher to him. Or, should the wine be first? Then, the kiss would seem even sweeter.

    She puts on her lingerie, a French bikini with a barely visible embroidered white lily on the hip. Lily as the symbol of her passion and her desire. She has envisioned everything, calculated it, from the color of her dress to the low cut of her décolleté. A few drops from the sacramental bottle will be enough for an unalterable chemical reaction to begin. There will be no escape, no chance for him to resist.

    "He will be mine. And that," she directs her sight toward the vial, "that will be token of my revenge."

    Her friend helps her with the zipper.

   "What revenge are you talking about?"

   "He deserves it. He made me wait." She looks out the window. Down there, beside a pillar of a building, he awaits her, impatiently stepping from one foot to the other.

   "One more minute, Darling!" she cries out. Now, let him wait. Expectation and anticipation, that’s what makes an appeasable man, she thinks.

    She spent a great deal of time preparing for tonight. Exhausted after rehearsals she nevertheless went shopping and researching; looking for the exact formula she needs to overpower him.

    Yesterday, he called her, asking for the date, and she knows today she is ready for it.

   "You are a cunning person," her friend says.

    She only smiles back and bring the vial close to her cheek. A tiny drop of fragrant liquid falls on the tip of her index finger. A light touch from her cheek down along the curve of her neck and another drop runs over her left side. With the pad of her finger, she catches the runaway. The very last touch is the valley and ravine around her breasts. She breathes in the sensual floral aroma that is concealed in the vial.

    Now she has to hurry. 

   "Have some mercy," her friend pleads. "His only fault is that he is a man and he madly loves you."

   "Never!"

   "Please, spare him. It’s not fair after all!"

   "Who said it should be fair? It’s a weapon women have used since the dawn of civilization and I will use it today."

    She spins on her high heel and runs down the stairs, holding onto the rails, reaching toward an open door.

    He sees her, hurries to her.

   "We can go, Darling. I am ready," she says.

    She takes his arm. Her other hand slips into her purse. Her secret is not for him to know, not yet. Carefully, she pushes down the cherished vial with its inscription in French, the small bottle of delicate "Poison", Christian Dior collection.