Page 5
A deep chuckle rumbles from him as he states, “Honestly, I do not know what my intent was. I will mention that I have thought of you more often, day by day. Year by year. As time goes on, I find myself longing not just for these moments of reprieve… I long for you. For someone I have never truly laid eyes upon and someone I do not know the name of and—”
My overwhelmed thoughts cause me to interrupt his words: “Would you like to go to the cabaret and see one of our shows?”
His seat groans beneath him as he repositions himself.
I hope I did not annoy him by throwing that question out, but I feared for whatever he would say next. If he comes to a show he will not know which one is me.
“I would love to see one of the shows. Is that how you’d like me to lay eyes upon you for the first time?”
I stare down at the table picking my nails, an anxious habit. “No. I would still appreciate it if our relationship stayed in the shadows. I fear my life would ruin yours and I would only cause you suffering and pain. At this distance, we may enjoy one another but not become so attached that I could cause you harm.” I make my statement boldly, with a side of grace and caution. “It isn’t that I do not want to see you. I fear I would ruin what we have. I am not who you think I am and I do not want to ruin the thoughts you have of me. I’d rather keep this bubble of ours.”
“I do like our bubble,” he remarks, both inhaling at the same time. Something catches my eye, and I find his hand outstretched to the side of our booths, beckoning for mine. Slowly I approach and lay my petite hand in his.
“I will do whatever you require of me. I too fear that if you truly knew what I do for a living and had to endure my family, my past, my personality, you would run and it would be my undoing, darling.” His tone is heartbreaking, but the last word melts my heart.
Darling.
This is the first time he has ever called me a term of endearment. My body feels flush, the chambers of my heart feel like they are to explode from the impact of one word.
“I appreciate that,” I murmur, then stammer to the edge of my bench and stand, clumsily taking my belongings and readying myself to rush out of the club.
“Did I say something wrong?” He asks with a pitiful tone.
“No. No. You said everything entirely in the right places.” I slap my hand to my face, willing my mouth to shut. “Must go. Same time, for our next scheduled lunch, yes?” The words hurry from my lips as I gather myself and rush down the steps, my heels creating a haunting echo. When I turn out of the establishment, I take a few steps in one direction, initially not realizing I had gone onto the wrong avenue.
“Oh, Christ!” I spit out as I turn into an alleyway. I place my forehead and palms upon the cold wall, reviewing our interaction. My body is still humming from his words, his touch, and everything he made me feel.
I let out an exaggerated exhale, but freeze when two scarred hands clamp atop mine. A familiar voice whispers along my nape, soothing my tensed body.
“I’m sorry if I scared you.” He followed me. Right now we feel like the only two people in this town as the fog rolls upon the streets, the humidity hangs in the air, and his warm body stays carefully flush with mine.
His presence overwhelms me in the best of ways. It is something I cannot describe, something I cannot control, and I fear I will let it consume me.
“As time moves on, I find myself thinking of you often. Recently my curiosities have gotten the better of me and I wondered what your hands would feel like. How they would fit in mine.” My breathing picks up at every whispered word that dances into my ear. “How you would react if I caressed your skin.” With one hand, he takes two fingers and caresses atop my wrist and over my forearm.
“Would you like me to give you space?” he asks cautiously, as if he doesn’t know if he crossed a line. As if when he backs away I might turn to scold him for his boldness.
But I won’t. I may not ever have imagined that we would be in this scenario, but I enjoy the intoxicating feeling it gives me.
“Do not give me space,” I order, my hold tightening around his wrist.
“What would you have me do next, darling?”
Carefully I take one hand from under his grasp and place it atop his, guiding that hand to grasp my neck delicately. “I want your lips to do as they did with my knuckles, but upon my neck. Please?” I wait with bated breath for a rejection but am filled with the thrill. As he carefully tips my neck with his large hand, giving him more access to my skin. The familiar sensation of his lips on my flesh send a wave of electricity thrumming in my veins. My skin prickles, and he chuckles at the feeling beneath his fingertips.
“We must not see one another’s faces. We must not go beyond surface level, for fear of ruination,” I order.
His lips brush the top of my ear as he whispers, “Your wish is my command, darling.”
4. Where Mirrors Make Stars - Olive
Hedonist
The smell of mahogany and vanilla welcomes my senses as I enter my favorite place I’ve created, La Sirene, the cabaret I established seven years ago. It was once a small thought but bloomed into a beautiful establishment. I credit all my decorative inspiration to my world travels and visiting the remarkable Sheesh Mahal Palace. I may not be able to replicate colors, but the architecture of the Sheesh Mahal allows me to view the beautiful reflections of light from the glass mosaics, precious stones, and mirrors built into the walls. The emperor who constructed the hall wanted his love to be able to see the stars at any time of the day. It was a romantic gesture, even though he had a harem. But then again, who am I to judge? I murder scum for a living.
I stride into my balcony seat, settling into the velvet chaise. A feeling of pride tickles my rib cage every time I come here, knowing all my hard work has brought my dreams to fruition. Glancing around the vast room, my breath catches in my throat at the mirrors and mosaic glass surrounding the cabaret. The candles allow the gleaming light to unfurl like a mirage of little dancing spectacles. I peer down to the middle of the hall, which has low circular tables, flickering under candle stubs melting into ornate holders. The reflections of light shimmer beautifully everywhere, bringing a small smile to my lips. Velvet curtains drape the balconies in deep hues, swallowing sound, time, and secrets.
At the heart of it all, the stage glows like a holy altar. An altar where my dancers can be worshipped for their talents. Polished wood drinks in the light and delivers back something warmer, richer—something alive. It is something no word may fully embody, this essence that surrounds the space. The entire room seemed to breathe with it, as if the cabaret itself were watching, waiting, and worshipping the acts portrayed onstage.
