Heavy smoke and wax enveloped the cigar-polluted air. The sultry piano enveloped my ears and made my body amenable to its bonniness. Dim, amber-hued bulbs hung from tarnished brass fixtures, casting faint golden glows that highlighted the cracked plaster walls, their peeling edges speaking of time's quiet erosion. Shadows flickered with each rise and fall of the melody, shifting like restless phantoms.
The wooden floor groaned softly underfoot, whispering tales of countless souls who had shuffled, stomped, and danced to defiant rhythms. Scattered tables held the scars of clandestine meetings: faint rings left by abandoned cocktails and the etched initials of lovers. The air carried a heady mix of spilled gin and sweet cigars, a blend as intoxicating as the spirits flowing freely behind the mahogany bar. The stage at the room's far edge thrummed with life as a trio of musicians brought the night to a standstill. The pianist's hands glided effortlessly over the keys, coaxing a melody that was equal parts seductive and exciting. Beside him, a saxophonist swayed in time, the light catching the silver bell of his instrument. A steady drumbeat underscored the music, a heartbeat to the room's electric pulse.
Patrons filled every corner, their laughter and murmurs merging with the music. Women in shimmering dresses sparkled like scattered stars, leaning into men with loosened ties and easy smiles. Others lingered in the shadows, their faces half-concealed by smoke, their eyes searching, scheming, or simply dreaming. Presiding over it all, a mural of a woman loomed on the back wall, her gaze enigmatic, her painted smile holding a secret the night couldn't unravel. She seemed as timeless as the music, her presence as haunting and vibrant as the speakeasy itself.
Tonight carried a brutal bittersweetness, a taste the gin and daiquiri failed to drown in my reckless haze. I stepped into a scene that seemed better suited for a lesser woman, but here we are, and the truth had a way of slipping through the cracks no daiquiri could mask. It was... amusing, in a way, to find him there, not just in her company, but in a moment so effortlessly open it almost seemed too…rehearsed. I couldn't quite ignore how his hand found hers, as if mine had become an afterthought—such a pity. But really, what does one more misstep matter when I've long since grown accustomed to keeping my distance?
It stung, of course. But nothing that couldn't be easily soothed by a glass of something strong and a quick laugh. And besides, the world doesn't stop turning for something as trivial as fleeting disappointment. After all, it's not as though I've gone without options. Quite the opposite, really. I've had men—fine men—parade before me like eager little puppies: dreaming, aching, yearning, to embrace me, caress my soul from the inside out and nurse on my sweet ample bosom like a babe to their mommy. I've smiled, exchanged a few words, shared a drink or two, but none of it ever seems to linger. It's always the same, a dance that's more performance than connection, no matter how much they might wish otherwise. No, none of them held the spark I yearned for, the fire I've been waiting for years to ignite. Not one could make my heart race the way it used to, not the way he once did.
I began to grow bored. The moments fade, the excitement wears thin, and before long, the thrill slips through my fingers like sand. I could have anyone I wanted, of course, but what was the point of having what didn't matter? What I longed for was the connection I once had, the depth, the passion… but somewhere along the way, I'd lost that. Now, I simply play the game, as I always have, but with less interest and less need.
The room around me shifts and breathes, the same hum of laughter and clinking glasses mixing with music. Faces blur as I rise, the weight in my chest shifting with every step I take. I move without thinking, my feet finding the rhythm as if they know what my mind refuses to acknowledge. The music swells, pulling me further into its embrace, and I wonder, just for a moment, if anyone else here feels the same gnawing hunger, the same sense that something is always just out of reach.
But no one seems to notice, or if they do, they pretend not to care. So I dance, my movement born of frustration, each step a release, each sway a small defiance against the emptiness. My body speaks what my words cannot, twisting the ache into something fluid, something almost graceful, as if I could dance the pain away. We all dance, in our own ways—some with joy, some with sorrow—but none of us truly stop. The world keeps spinning, unstoppable, and for a little bit , I let it carry me along. The noise, the laughter, the clinking of glasses, they all blur into the background as I lose myself in the music, pretending for just a little while that the ache doesn't exist.
The music shifts again, and I dance harder, faster, as if I could outrun the hollow ache deep in my chest. My movements are almost frantic now. My feet feel heavy, my head light—too many daiquiris, too much spinning. I feel the rush of heat in my face, the pulse in my temples, but I ignore it. I ignore it all as I twirl once more, only to stumble. My legs wobble beneath me, a feeling of unease flooding in.
It's too much. I stop, trying to regain my balance, but the dizziness only sharpens. I grip the nearest table for support, my vision blurring in the soft amber light. My stomach twists—God, no. I blink rapidly, trying to shake off the wave of nausea to no avail.
A man approaches, his smile wide, his eyes a little too eager, his hand reaching out to steady me. I can tell in an instant: he doesn't mean well. The scent of whiskey and cheap cologne is overpowering, and I feel a sharp edge in the way he looks at me. I take a step back, steadying myself and forcing a polite smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "I'm fine, thank you," I say quickly, my voice sharper than I intend. "I'm with someone," I lie - so easily, it almost feels real. "But thank you."
I turn and rush toward the bathroom, heart racing, breathing shallow. The door slams behind me, and I stumble toward the nearest stall. I don't even have time to lock it before my stomach betrays me—everything I drank comes up in a violent rush. I cough and spit, my body trembling, as if it wants to rid itself of every last bit of what I consumed tonight.
There are other women in the bathroom, their voices low, full of snickers and judgment. I catch a few snippets of their conversation as I lean against the cool porcelain of the toilet, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Did you see her? She's been here all night, acting like she owns the place," one of them says, her voice dripping with condescension.
"Crass, if you ask me," another one adds, her words laced with spite. "And what is she even wearing? So... loud. So desperate."
I try to ignore them, but their laughter sticks to the air, thickening the stench of alcohol and sweat. They leave quickly, their heels clicking against the tile floor, and I hear them make their way toward the exit.
I'm alone again, but I don't feel any better. I stay there for a moment longer, my head bent, tears threatening to well up. But no. I can't—*I won't*—let them see that. I spit again, my throat raw, and rinse my mouth out quickly with cold water. The coldness is a shock, but it does nothing to ease the churning in my stomach or the ache in my heart.
I look up at my reflection, and for a moment, I don't recognize myself. There's a haze over my eyes, a dullness in my gaze that wasn't there before. My makeup, though mostly intact, looks smudged now, my cheeks flushed and blotchy. I barely recognize the woman in front of me. Her hair, the strands falling a little too limp from dancing, the lipstick faded, the sharpness in her eyes dimmed.
What am I doing here? I think, the question slipping into my thoughts like a poison. What am I doing with my life? It feels like I'm constantly chasing something, but I can't even figure out what it is. I don't know who I am anymore, let alone what I've become.
I take a deep breath and wipe my sweaty palms on the tissue. Patting down my armpits, I try to steady my hands as I fix my rouge, smoothing it until it's just right. It's the only thing I can control, the only thing that still feels like me.
I finish my makeup, my face a little more put together, my mind still fragmented, and I turn to leave. Just as I pull my powder back into my bag, I hear a voice, sharp and clear, cutting through the chatter in the bar.
"Ladies and gentlemen, our next performer of the evening—please welcome a voice unlike any you've heard before."
I roll my eyes at myself, thinking it's probably another one of those wannabes, but as I make my way to the door, I hear the smooth, slow melody start to swell.
The music drifts through the air, deep and rich—nothing like the usual crowd's usual noise. The low notes curl around me, drawing me in. My steps falter as I listen, captivated. Maybe... maybe I'll stay for a few minutes, see what this one's all about.
I step out of the bathroom, powder in hand, not bothering to look up at first. Then, a voice rises up—a woman's voice, soft yet powerful, flowing with an elegance that seems almost unreal-a dream. I freeze.
It's like nothing I've ever heard before. Like nothing I've ever felt before.
I look up, finally catching sight of her. She stands there on stage, her presence commanding, effortless. The crowd hushes, and for the first time tonight, I feel a sense of stillness in the air. She's beautiful, towering in a way that demands attention.Darkness sculpted her and she gleamed in the low light of the club, her skin glinting with every movement. Her lips—full, plump—pink in the middle, so pretty they could be a sweet confection. Her hair clung to her head in glossy, sculpted ripples - deliberate curves that glided along her scalp like water and wind framing her face perfectly.
And the way she sings—it's like every note was meant for me. She chills me. I can't look away.
As I step forward, closer to the stage, I find an empty seat, pulling it closer to the front. My heart beats a little faster. The way she sways, the way she sings, the perfect rasps in her voice—it pulls me in. The dress she wears isn't very popular but it's ethereal—jade, with long, delicate sleeves that float like gossamer. The intricate detailing on her dress shimmers faintly as she moves.
Her voice flows through me like a whisper: it unravels something in me—a knot I didn't know was there. There's a certain pull to it, something that keeps me in place, rooted to the floor despite the desire to move. It's unlike anything I've heard before—sharp, smooth, and raw all at once, cutting through the noise of the night. In that moment, the world around me fades, and all I can do is listen, as if it's the only thing that matters
As her voice washes over me, I close my eyes, letting the melody pull me deeper into its spell. It's a soft lament, almost a waltz, dripping with yearning.
Her voice dips and soars, haunting and otherworldly, a sound that feels as though it's existed long before this moment or any moment. The faintest rasp of longing threads through her tone, stirring something deep within me. I can't help but open my eyes again, drawn to her silhouette.
And then I see her. Her.
The whore who destroyed what little thread held my marriage together. Her hair is different tonight—sleeker, more composed—but it's undeniably her. That same smug tilt of the chin, the same casual drape of a fur coat over one bare shoulder, and the same cold, calculating eyes scanning the room. She leans against the bar, red lips curled into a half-smile, watching the singer with a kind of predatory interest. It's charming, really, how she's managed to brush a little gloss over her sins, but sweetheart, you can't perfume a whore and expect virtue.
My stomach churns. Memories flood back unbidden—the way she leaned into my husband, whispering into his ear with a laugh that pierced me like a dagger. The way he looked at her, the way he touched her as if I didn't exist.
I feel the bile rise in my throat, but I force it down. Not here. Not now. I won't let her ruin this moment for me.
The piano swells, drawing my attention back to the singer. She's impossibly radiant, her gown shimmering like liquid emerald under the dim light. Her hands float delicately as she sings, her voice weaving through the space like silk ribbons.
Without thinking, I rise from my seat. My heels click against the wooden floor, but the sound is swallowed by the music. I step into the empty space at the center of the room—the dance floor.
For a moment, I falter, feeling the weight of dozens of eyes on me. But the song wraps around me, tender and insistent, and I can't help but move. Slowly, deliberately, I sway to the rhythm, my body finding its own language to speak the emotions I can't.
I lose myself in the music, spinning slowly, my arms flowing like the trailing fabric of her dress. I don't care who's watching anymore. This moment is mine. Her voice carries me, lifts me.
But as I turn, mid-sway, I catch her eyes—the woman at the bar. She's watching me now, her lips pursed,
I feel the heat of her gaze, but instead of shrinking away, I tilt my chin and let a faintly knowing smile creep across my face. I let my hand float up as if casting an invisible thread toward her, and with a flick of my wrist, I blow her a kiss.
Her reaction is immediate. Her face twists into a faint scowl, her sharp features contorted with irritation. She turns abruptly, the fake fur on her coat brushing dramatically over her shoulder, and stalks toward the door.
Good riddance.
I continue to dance, a quiet triumph settling into my chest. The music shifts again, slower now, the piano drawing out the notes with tender deliberation.
The singer's voice lowers, hushed yet still powerful. As the song draws to a close, the room holds its collective breath. The silence that follows is heavy, reverent, as if no one dares to disturb the lingering beauty of her voice.
I stop moving, my body still as her long lasting final note rings out and fades into the smoky air. My chest rises and falls with deep breaths, my skin tingling, my heart racing.
For a moment, she stands on stage, bathed in the dim glow of the lights. She glances toward the dance floor, and I feel her eyes land on me, warm and relaxes. I don't know if it's real or imagined, but for a fleeting moment, it feels as if her gaze acknowledges me, truly sees me.
Then she bows, and her spell is broken.
The room erupts into applause, patrons rising to their feet in a clamor of appreciation. But I stay rooted where I am, the world spinning faintly around me.
As she steps off the stage, disappearing into the shadows beyond the curtain, I can't help but feel a pang of loss. Something about her presence, the power of her voice, the way she carried herself, it feels unfinished, like a story whose ending I'll never know; such sonder
But for now, I let that ache settle. I return to my seat, my legs trembling slightly, the warmth of her song still thrumming in my veins. And though I know the night will end, as all nights must, I cling to the magic of this moment, carrying it with me like a secret no one else can taint.