Stage

Her body twists, the sweat kissed skin of her bare legs glistening in the dull light. Wrapping a calf around the cold metal she spins, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. Her auburn hair cascades down her back like liquid fire, shimmering with every rotation. She places her hand at the front of her bodice and with one swift flick of her well-practiced wrist she releases the clasp. She notices that his eyes are still on hers. With her breasts exposed she finds this strange. She moves around the stage fluidly, every step carefully rehearsed. She lifts the cheap fabric of her minuscule skirt ever so slightly, just high enough on her thigh to inspire temptation but still allowing enough concealment to retain mystery. Every lift, every blink, every step, every touch - a practiced art.
When he walked in she didn't think anything of it, just another set of eyes to please, another mind to exploit - another wallet to plunder. That was five hours ago. He hasn't moved from his chair at the back, hasn't ordered a drink, hasn't averted his gaze from her the entire time. She's used to creepers forming perverted obsessions with her, but this feels different. She feels like she knows him, she's certain they've met before. She runs through lists in her mind, crossing off every mundane place where this man could have made an impact on her life. She glides to the front of the stage as her solo cue music starts, by the end of the first verse of jazzy chorus she's down to just two pieces of fabric barely covering her modesty. Her narrowed eyes bore through him as she loops a finger under each section of lace, all the while gyrating her hips in time to the rhythmic horn. With a daring raise of the eyebrow she begins to pull at the delicate bow holding the fabric up. And she's exposed, entirely exposed. Yet his eyes never wander beyond hers.
She returns back to her pole at the left of the stage and continues to dance, as she does every night in this dingy STI-riddled cesspit. The applauds starts, every clap stabbing through her like a shame poisoned dagger. She flicks her eyes to him and the look on his face catches her off guard, his features are twisted into what she recognizes as disappointment. It's the same look she got from her mother when she left college to pursue her career as a dancer and subsequently every visit home since. This was not what either of them had in mind. The money starts flying her way and she scoops to retrieve it, all the while being careful not to bend too far in either direction. She can feel his eyes on her. searing her flesh as if his vision is burning her, charring the skin where ever it falls. She considers getting the manager to be rid of him, but the girls always say not to anger the 'creepers'. That's what ends you up like Mary-lou. She was found with her breasts cut off and her skull bashed in around July last year. Rumor has it she got a guy thrown out who'd been stalking her and he waited the 6 hours for her shift to end, raped her, killed her, and then took with him the part of her he liked best.
The song ends and she gathers her clothes and heads backstage for a costume change. Entering her cool dressing room she shoves on her tacky, bright underwear in a rush - she only has 30 minutes. She stares at herself in the mirror as she allows her heart rate to return to normal following the vigorous activity on stage. She has to blink to know the face looking back at her is her own, you can barely make out the girl underneath all the garish disguise. She hears a knock on her dressing room door shortly after taking off her false lashes. Grabbing a terrycloth robe she steps towards the sound, tightly wrapping it around herself as she does so. She opens the door, smile plastered to her heavily made up face, and there he stands. Tall and brooding, the crease between his eyes deep, his brow furrowed. He looks her up and down apprehensively and then growls almost begrudgingly;
'May I come in?'. His iridescent irises gleam in the hall's fluorescent light.
'Yes.' she breaths. She's unsure of why she did so, it was like he was the hammer and she was the knee. She notes his broad shoulders and his large hands as he passes her in the cramped doorway - he smells like rain and something sweet she can't quite place. He shuffles across the room and stands awkwardly by her clothing rail, his eyes flicker quickly to the array of undergarments hanging frivolously there, then they immediately flick back to her and his face turns a peculiar shade of red. She starts to warm her heart towards this awkward, strange man. He's dressed incongruously from her usual clientele in a fine suit and is holding a rain-soaked anorak in his shaking hands.Taking in the salt and pepper dashing trough his slick-backed mahogany hair she would place him at about fifty, a possible three decades older than her. She's used to older men coming back to speak to her, to gush over her. They bumble and fawn in the most repulsive manor, like starved dogs in the presence of a prime steak. This man is different. She feels comfortable in his presence, he has a calming air about him. His deep breathing reminds her of a breaking shore and his eyes have lines around them that she's certain were made by smiles, not frowns. She herself smiles softly at the thought and offers him a seat - which he rejects.
'I can't stay.' He looks up and their eyes meet again, but this time it's different. She becomes very aware of the small space between them, of the lack of other human beings around, again of his broad shoulders, his large, rough, hands. In spite of his great stature and his gruff voice she believes he'd be a gentle lover. As she leans against her dressing table, leg bent and garter showing, she decides she'll let him sleep with her. She knows that's why he's here, that's why they're all here. Never before has she let a costumer into her bed, but there's something about the awkward mannerisms of this stranger that charms her. She illogically feels she can trust him.
'What's your name?' she coos, cocking her head.
'Charles.' he replies. He clears his throat. 'Charles Linton'
'Well Charles' she begins taking off her robe, and soon she is standing in just her underwear once more, the terrycloth softly dangling from her elbows. 'What can I do for you?' He looks at her and he winces. Taken-aback she lets the robe fall completely to the floor.
'Nothing.' he says flatly, his eyes on hers once more. His face tells her nothing. 'I should never of come.' he walks briskly to the door and yanks it open. He stands in the door way for a second, fumbling with something in his pocket. He turns and places a dirty envelope on the floor by her feet. He does not even glance at her before he exits through the chipped wood frame. The draft from where it's left hanging open hits her bare skin and goose bumps appear all over it but she does nothing to heal them, she just stands in the same spot, confused. She tried to comprehend what just happened, how quickly and bizarrely the mood shifted. Eventually she shivers - bringing her back to earth, back to this dingy dressing room, back to the life she's trapped in. She goes to the mirror, reapplies her lashes and touches up her liner. She looks at herself and is filled with hate. It bubbles up inside her to such a degree that she feels she may just explode all over this boxy room. How dare he? she thinks, How dare he reject her so, and then he has the nerve to leave her money? No, it wasn't right.
'No!' She screams at her reflection and her reflection screams back. She lifts a balled fist and jabs at her face in the mirror. The glass shatters and she recoils in pain, blood spouting from her tarnished knuckles. She falls to the floor on bent knees and howls into her lap, tears falling onto her naked flesh. As the mascara enters her weeping eyes they sting with an intensity to match her throbbing hand. She squeezes them shut to stop the pain. As she lays foetally balled on the floor she runs over the day in her mind and suddenly it clicks. Her thoughts reel and she feels as if she is melting into the nylon carpet rubbing harshly against her skin. The smell, the feeling, the name. She rises to her feet and runs over to the envelope on the floor. She rips it open desperately, pain searing from her wounded fist. Inside is a wad of cash as she anticipated but snuggled next to it is a small neatly folded note. She unfolds it and reads it and sinks down onto the floor once more. The blood on her hand is drying at a rapid pace. The lights blink twice and the bell goes, signalling it's time for her to go back to work. But she just stays where she is. Her head spiraling in a sick, shameful rage. She'd known his name since she was small how could she not have made the connection. Her lecherous desires had prevented her from exercising basic common sense. She wants to cry for him, to beg him to come back, to scream she's sorry and she misses him - all the things she'd ever wanted to say to him. But it didn't work when he left her the first time and she knew it definitely wouldn't work now. Not now he'd seen the damage he'd done, seen what leaving had done to his little girl - seen what she'd become.