L'homme qu'elle aimait The Studio was brand new. New hard wood, light-brown glazed floors. A large full open glass window, facing the street. The oldest thing in the whole studio was the wall clock, shaped like a rooster. Facing the glass window looking out at the street, I stand in my pointe shoes, black leotard, and black tights. On the floor next to me. A white box with some rosin dust and one medium-sized, rosin, yellowstone. Thinking of what to do next, I pick up the medium rosin stone in hand, turning twice. I open my palm, staring at the stone like a piece of bright gold, and drop it back into the box. I crush the stone with the wooden point of my toe, creating new dust. I pick up a bit of dust with my hand rubbing it in my hair. The wooden ballet bar behind me on the back wall is glistening. I touch the bar with my left hand, doing a full and long Arabesque. Shoulders back, chest up. Moving to the corner of the studio,