“Cry me a river,” said she.

The stone fountain was like any you would find in any courtyard in any hotel with Victorian aspirations in any city with any name you would know. The fountain is off, and she pays no attention to it, standing upon its perimeter. She bends down, hands upon her knees, tilts her head to a side and looks straight down upon him, all wide-eyed.

He sits upon the tiled floor, the tiles a large, too dark a colour to be orange, but brown is a colour lacking in the kind of class you would find in any hotel with Victorian aspirations. It does not matter if the hotel is a year old or a hundred, what matters is that pillars Corinthian, in white unblemished, do not go, no no no, with the tiles the colour brown. He sits, legs apart, leaning back upon his hands, fingers splayed, returns her gaze, all wide-eyed.

“The river, alas, must wait,” said he, “what colour is this floor?”

“Colour?!” she squeals, straightens up, turns her body to the side while she keeps her gaze upon him, bends backward, arms spread, fingers splayed, smiling.

“Colour? Colour! Indeed, milady, what colour be these tiles?” Still holding her eyes, a hand pats the tile he is sitting on, “your hair was dark, and now it’s not, you call it pink, but really, really, I wouldn’t, but that I have no other word for the colour of your hair, but that it goes very well with the colour of your eyes.”

“You lie,” said she, “my hair is pink, and you would fain say the same of it were it any colour at all.” She moves her hips slightly, slightly, causing her to sway, as if moving to a music only she could hear, the music of the spheres. “If I were to fall, sweet prince, would I fall into thy arms?”

He smiles, and smiles, and smiles again, tilts his head the other way, releases her eyes to drink in the rest of her, flushed face, neck, breasts, swaying slightly, slightly, “only if you, who hold the stars in your eyes and my heart in your hands, can tell me what colour these tiles are.”

“Oh bother,” said she, lifts an arm up, tosses it over, unbalances enough to fall, lands upon her feet, curls up, hugs her knees with both arms, studies the subject in question.

“Well?” said he, looking at her, unable not to.

“Not brown is it, this floor of yours? I think brown lacks a certain romance,” she jerks her head backward, over a shoulder, indicating the backdrop of fountain, white pillars, bright chandeliers through tall windows.

“Nor orange. Is clay a colour? But, certainly, these tiles have seen the passage of countless feet.”

“I don’t think so. It is far too flat and far too well to be any older than I am!”

“You, mademoiselle, are hardly old at all. And what does ‘far too well’ mean?”

“It looks very much to be a well floor, in the pink of health! Well and truly paved. Unworn!”

He draws his legs in, feet flat upon the tiles in question, jerks himself forward, pivots to a stand, leads towards her, almost a bow, sways a little, slightly, looks up at her, and smiles, “You, who are the sunshine of my life, you, are pink.”

He draws his legs in, jerks himself forward, pivoting to a stand, sways a little, slightly. Leans forward, in a bow, he looks up at her, and smiles, “you, the sunshine of my life, you, are pink.”

“Ahh, at last, monsieur, you admit it!”

His eyebrows furrow, confused. She sits, legs spread, clasps both hands behind his head, pulls him forward, topples him into her.

The floor is dirty, and hard, and she does not notice, though his weight upon her should, in any courtyard in any hotel in any city with any name you would know, cause her some discomfort, were he someone, anyone else. She notices only the feel of his lips, the taste of his breath, and the touch of his skin, beneath her fingers.

She holds him to her, her fingers in his hair, her voice in his ear.

“If you fall,” said she, “I will catch you.”

He replies, preceded and succeeding with a lick of her ear.

“I did not fall,” said he, “I was pulled.”

“Cry me a river,” said she.