In Over Her Head by Elsie Russell - Parnasse.com

where it hit her. He might be there.
The side entrance was ajar so she slipped into the dark church.
The whole place was empty, still reeking of incense from mass. No
Sandro, not even in his favorite confessional. She sat down in the
wooden cubicle and tried to think around her now severely aching
body. Maybe, just maybe. She ran out the church and zigzagged
through the crazy traffic across the Boulevard St. Germain, around the
corner to the Rue du Dragon. She didn't know Max and Maia's code,
and no one was answering the buzzer, so she hollered up. People in the
middle of their déjeuners opened their windows to look and hush her,
but there was no Max, no Maia, and no Sandro. Their shutters were
locked down and she remembered that they were in California.
She walked back towards the St. Germain Metro stop. She
knew this line went to Bastille. Maybe, just maybe, he would show up at
the concert. Out of Metro tickets, Penny shelled out the crisp euros for
a carnet and swiped for Bastille.
She didn't have the concert tickets, he had them. Maybe she
could get one at the door, contemporary concerts rarely sold out. Seats
were plentiful on the upper balconies. The hall wasn't open yet, so
Penny mulled around the gift area, clutching toilet paper wads in her
pockets. For such an extravagant hunk of architecture it had a pretty
sorry gift shop. She flipped through the selection of postcards: long
dead opera singers sporting horns and handlebar mustaches, facsimile
photos of Angelino's Nijinskys, then swan princesses through the ages,
from Marie Taglioni to Anna Pavlova to―
She stopped at a black and white one of a ballerina in a white
tutu dancing next to a fake gravestone. At first she thought it was
another of Pavlova's dying swans because of those slab-like
cheekbones. Turning it around, the caption said Irina Ulanova dans le
role de Giselle, Théâtre de L'Opéra, 1953.
With the now pink fingerprint covered postcard in her pocket
she got into the elevator for the trip up to her balcony. From her new
perch she could see down below, down an almost vertical drop, the
seats they should both be occupying. Maybe later she could sneak down
and sit properly in one of them, but he sure wasn't there now, and she
couldn't see him blowing in now, somehow.
Something was terribly wrong with her body, more than her
recent tumble. She analyzed her symptoms: wrenching abdominal pain,
cold sweat, dizziness, heaviness in the extremities. Had Ula pulled a
Borgia with her drink? Impossible, she had watched her every move.
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