Most nights of Henri's were spent like this, mopping backstage with his friends as they laughed and joked, talking about cards and bets and girls and games and life. Henri thought his life wasn't too bad, despite not having two pennies to rub together. He lived in a ballet studio, although upstairs in the attic wasn't ideal. He had been living here since he was ten years old, pounding on the door of the ballet studio for girls and asking for a job. A tiny, bratty little ten year old boy with no family and no qualifications. And yet, they'd taken pity on him. He worked and lived in his employment place as a janitor, long days with callouses on fingers and his body smelling like sweat. At least he had his friends, the other janitors, to accompany him on nights like these.

Faron, a short and stubby guy with the beginning of a mustache above his lip shoved his hand in his pocket and whistled. "Missed a spot there, Picard." He spit a phlegm glob onto the ground as Henri scowled.

Henri shoved his head to the side and shot back. "You work here too, you loon. Clean that up or I'm tellin' the 'Fleet on you." The Fleet, of course, was the owner of the ballet studio, Miss Fleeting. A tall, intimidating woman who's hair and face was stretched tightly, her mouth in a permanent scowl. Faron chuckled but grabbed a mop.

Henri moved his mop to the direction of center stage, motioning to Luc for a cigarette. As Henri moved to light it, he dropped the cigarette on the ground while looking ahead of him, making the guys chuckle, but they quickly shut up as well when they saw the girl.

A ballerina danced on center stage, her eyes closed, her movement graceful. Henri found himself choking on air. She was easily the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. Henri could only see her side profile, but he was instantly in love. She was so pretty, her lips puckered in concentration, still dressed up in her uniform, hair tied with a bow. Henri was sure he'd never seen her before, because he wouldn't have forgotten a face and a body like that.