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I can still feel the powder on my tongue.
It tasted chalky, dry — the kind that clings to the back of your throat no matter how much you drink. The dressing room smelled the same as always: sweat, perfume, and the faint sour of old silk that’s been steamed too many times. Someone had spilled a drink on the counter and it mixed with the heat from the bulbs, a sickly kind of sweetness, like candy on a hot plate.
Ruby came in with a grin that didn’t reach her eyes and a wad of bills thick enough to make a sound when she dropped it on the table. “Good night, huh?” Lulu said, voice rough from cigarettes. Nobody asked where she got it. We all knew. There’s always some man who thinks he’s fallen in love for an hour.
I didn’t say anything, just watched her count. The notes looked dirty, like they’d been through too many hands. Her lipstick was smudged and her stockings were laddered, but she still looked pleased with herself. Of course she did. Money’s money.
Claudette was painting her toenails again. Red, of course. She dragged the brush slow, steady, so we all had to see. I watched the polish pool and dry, tiny glints under the yellow light. I think she likes the power in that — the way we all look at her without meaning to.
My own face didn’t feel like mine once I finished painting it. The foundation was thick tonight, heavier than usual. I could see the cracks near my mouth when I smiled at myself in the mirror. I didn’t look happy, but I smiled anyway. Lulu was rehearsing her piece in the corner, off-key but soft.
The sound rattled against the mirrors.
I didn’t feel glamorous. I felt like I was melting. The sequins on my dress were sharp at the edges and they scratched my ribs when I breathed. I could smell gin on my hands from where I’d touched Ruby’s glass earlier.
When the call came, we all moved at once — a rush of fishnetted legs and perfume and cigarettes stubbed out half-smoked. The music started before I even reached the curtain. My heart went strange, beating too fast, like it wanted out. Always does. That moment between sitting still and stepping out — it’s like being born again, only into fire. The stage lights burned white, and for a second I couldn’t see a thing. The lights hit, white-hot and blinding, and for a second I thought I’d walk straight into them and burn.
The men looked the same as always — slick hair, loosened ties, the kind of faces that forget you as soon as you turn away. Their laughter came in bursts, sharp and ugly. I smiled anyway, because that’s what you do. You have to make them want you.
Everything blurred — the crowd, the other girls, even the music.
My skin was slick under the sequins, and my heels stuck to the floor with every spin. I thought I might fall. I thought I might faint. I didn’t. I just kept moving because stopping wasn’t an option. It was all heat and noise and the echo of my own breath.
And then, through the smoke and the brass and the blur of movement, I saw her. Sitting near the back, between two grubby men, one arm draped over the chair, cigarette glowing faintly.
Was it really?
No, it couldn't be.
Dietrich.
Marlene Dietrich.
She looked unreal — like someone lit her from the inside. For a second, everything went quiet in me. I forgot my cue. I forgot where I was. I just stared until she looked back. And when she did, it felt like she saw everything — the sweat, the fear, the little lie of the smile I’d painted on.