The Night Show

Chapter One

It's morning, and I am staring at the mirror in the public bathroom below 3rd Boulevard. The reflection, stained and tired, looks back at me with a disgusted gaze. We both need coffee.

I retrieve my hidden bag of clothes from behind the sink and change into something fresher. If only I could do the same for my insides. Silvie's note is still in my pocket as I step out onto the street.

My feet feel wet, though they're just cold, and I'm struggling to walk in heels—the only proper shoes I have left.

My shawl is too short to shield me from the snowy world. I hurry, trying to avoid looking at the freshly taped missing-person posters, but my nose catches the sharp smell of fresh glue.

A bakery around the corner offers some comfort. I used to love eating pastries like those, but now I admire them from behind the glass. They're perfect in their own world, just out of reach. I'm the fox, and they're my grapes.

My illusions are broken by the growl of a car. Everyone fears cars these days; they're all black, and black cars take you to dark places. Dark places, full of dark people.

I follow the rules and step up onto the sidewalk, pulling my shawl up to cover more of my face. I join the others in an intense study of the pavement.

It's moments like this I notice that, even with all the cracks in the concrete, nothing grows between them.

Sometimes I wonder if I could plant flowers there. As the car's roar fades, we return to ignoring each other, each one a ghost on these lonely sidewalks.

The whole street had the atmosphere of a church. A priest, illuminated by the glow of a ten-meter screen, announced yet another wisdom, waiting for answers to questions that had never been asked. It's good to store those gems; you never know when you'll need them.

For example, I like having my imaginary scenarios ready for dark times. But with these gospels, if you don't follow the rules, you don't just go to hell; you end up in a black car. Much worse—cold and far less fabulous.

I keep checking my pocket, confirming Silvie's note is still there. I know every word on it by heart, but I can't let it go.

Finally, I arrive. The brutalist building rises twenty floors above me, still scarred from the last war. A part of an office hangs open from one of the floors, visible from here.

The layers of moss covering the furniture look soft, like they'd welcome me. But I keep walking, forcing myself forward.

After a few mental slaps, I push toward my destination.

I enter the building and step into the elevator. Instead of cozy moss, I press the button down. I've accepted my descent. For now.

"Vera, glad you showed up," Silvie greets me as I pull off my coat.

"Girl's got to eat." The words sound strange, even to me.

"I thought the bar would be best. What do you say?"

"Lead on," I say, relieved.

"Money's less than if you work clients directly, but it's steady—"

"It's perfect," I reply before she can change her mind. "When can I start?"

"Someone'll show you the bar," she mutters, distracted. "Changing room's to the left."

The red and black drapes give the place a circus vibe, like I'm here to entertain bored high-class patrons. It isn't far from the truth.I never liked the circus, yet here I am, facing myself in a mirror, wrapped in sparkles and makeup. No shawl to hide me, no smudges to blur the reflection. I'm here to entertain. I step into the bar, but it's empty.

Music blares; glitter rains down from the ceiling, a party for ghosts.

Two voices break the silence—a man and a woman, leaning against a wall, fresh from one of the rooms.

They kiss, and he slips something into her bag before disappearing. She takes a few slow steps toward the bar.

"New girl?" she asks, noticing me. I nod. She smiles and introduces herself, but I immediately forget her name.

"Let's get you up to speed, shall we?" she declares, and I shrug.