I sometimes wonder before the show starts whether Trixie looks better than me while I perform my arts.
People love to express themselves with the stroke of a paintbrush or the words of a song. I fear that someday the art that I practice will die out and with it, the beautiful memories I created throughout my days.
Curtains rolled wide open as I faced the stage, the lights glazed my eyes as I held Trixie in my hand.
I remembered that it was a Saturday therefore it was the night of a family-friendly show. I took the vulgarities out of my mind as I proceeded to walk onto the stage in my performing suit and bow-tie, waving my one hand and controlling Trixie with the other.
Trixie was my latest doll, her beauty was astounding and the makeup fit her face perfectly. Her blushed red cheeks sparked with the light, and her beautiful blue eyes coincided with the color of the sky that day.
I placed one hand in the back of Trixie's head as I started performing my craft. I'd like to think that I am the best of what is left of this art.
I proceed with my stagecraft facilely, my years of training had washed ashore. Trixie was astounding, her South-African accent was a hit along with her pureness. The crowd laughed. Those who thought my craft was dead were aghast. They were fascinated as they couldn't see my lips move as I perform.
My eyes adjust to the glaring, dizzying lights. I can make out the crowd now. I see people cheer, some who were appalled.
On the front row, a little girl took my eyes; she sat next to her mother as she laughed and clapped at my performance. She sat gracefully wearing her pink dress. Her skin was ethereal. I wondered if she was staying at this hotel.
Maybe I will make one more dummy for the show.
Trixie won't last much longer after all.
I fear that the makeup won't be able to hide her rotting, decaying skin any longer.
