Tormented and unable to fight it, I let the rhythm of the song pass on to me, well below the surface of the skin. I began to lip sync the words, assuming a defensive posture, accusing, absorbing the faux bravado the song began with. She was a woman built from my own hell. A woman trying to control what she had no control over.
I can do whatever I want!
But I want to do whatever I want with you.
One sway led to another before my body started to really move. One minute moving, then lifted off my feet, my arms spread out; a bird about to take flight into the unknown. Even in the state that I was in, I came down gracefully, gently, on the step up stage. Black feathers lined the course, my feet setting them off on a journey of twirls and floats.
A reflection moved with me, watching me with eyes that could turn mountains into ashes. Every so often on a twirl I would catch his eye, but I was unable to stop long enough to give him my full attention.
I hadn’t realized the moment the song ended, or the silence, or the guests staring at me from behind their masks. Not at first. When the music ended, I turned to face the reflection, seeing only him in every face behind the masks. Hot tears spilled under the masquerade, blood from a fresh wound, and I crumpled to the floor of feathers, hiding my eyes.
He wouldn’t be swooping me up and aligning my gravity with his anytime soon. I am utterly alone and oceans apart from the safety of his arms.
I peeked between my fingers; nothing had changed. Every face belonged to him, but the bodies were foreign, which seemed to heighten the loneliness that clawed its way to the surface of my skin.
Sniffing, I rose to my feet, and the entire crowd broke out in roaring applause.
Emory met me on stage, a serious look in his eyes. He moved in closer. Before I could take a step back, his lips found mine. Standing still, I kept my eyes open. My attention roved, looking for an escape, but I only found Olivier watching us. His tongue flicked at his bottom tooth every so often. The action seemed almost arrogant. No, he seemed arrogant.
Finally finding the ambition to move, I took a step back, breaking the one-sided kiss. Emory only smiled, whistling his way in another direction. I shook my head, trying to clear it. I used my sleeve to wipe my mouth.
What kind of place was this? Did people just go around kissing one another for no reason?
“You use your suffering as ammunition against yourself, Scarlett Rose Poésy,” Olivier said, taking my hand and helping me down from the stage. He kept a firm grip, not letting go. “There is nothing quite like a female who loses herself to the dance.Becomes the dance. That is what I shall call you from now on.Danse de Dame.”Lady Dance.“Maintenant, permettez-moi de remplacer ce baiser par un de passion.”Now,let me replace his kiss with one of passion.
Olivier took my face in his hands, caressing his lips back and forth against mine. My eyes refused to close again, wanting to see him look at me, but his eyes were hooded, almost shut.
On the surface the entire moment seemed right—he could kiss, and his hands seemed to know their way around a woman’s body—but deeper, I only felt muddled, even lonelier, and all mucked up.
Nothing exists between his eyes and mine. I couldn’t be with a man whose soul is a stranger to mine.
I broke the kiss, a slight noise parting us. “Olivier,” I whispered. “Where’s the exit?”
Chapter Five
Scarlett
The ride back to the apartment did nothing to ease my frazzled nerves. If anything, it only added to the fray. Colette sulked. My time was tethered to hers at Sous Rosa. When I left the smoke and mirrors club, it was required that she accompany me.
A frown caused her plump lips to turn pouty. I considered telling her that prolonged exposure to such a face caused wrinkles. Instead, I bit my tongue. There were many things I could be called, but a hypocrite was not one of them.
Emilia was waiting for us when we arrived home. She sat on the sofa, her back arched forward, her eyes fixated on her lewd picture collection scattered on the table. We might have gone to an elusive underground Paris club, but Emilia was a member of an elusive group that sent pictures of black and white body parts to one another—mostly body parts that were always under wraps, such as but not limited to: breasts, nipples, vaginas, penises, and derrières.
She had once asked me to identify a shot she had received. I stared at it for over an hour and all I could come up with was a pimple. Turns out, it was a nipple.
That was when she had explained the concept. “The body should be celebrated. It heightens the experience when you have no idea who the part belongs to. That nipple there could be yours or Colette’s. Or maybe it belongs to the man who delivers the roses to you every month. It is secret art.”
I suspected Colette took most of Emilia’s pictures but never asked.Too much information.
“You are home!” Emilia didn’t look up from organizing her secret photographs. “What happened?”
Leaving Colette to retell the story, since she had perked up after staring at a picture of a man’s buttock—a jungle of hair, that’s what made me decide it belonged to a man—I went into the kitchen to find myself a bottle of sparkling water and a pear.
I couldn’t seem to keep still. My fingers twitched and my feet tapped.
Common sense told me that the absinthe had garnered an unusual reaction from me—it pulled from secret places, bringing forth things only met in the darkness of my life. The green drink held up a mirror, exposing all that I feared to see in the light.
I felt like I had broken out of a mold, and without the protection of an outer shield, a big part of who I was lingered, deciding whether to go or to stay, only the essentials sticking around for the long haul. All of my important parts were exposed and vulnerable, easily shaped by unknown forces.
