The Night Show

Chapter Two

After two weeks working the bar here, I could say that if you made a movie of all I've seen, it would mostly be close-ups of colorful drinks in bottles. I don't look where I don't need to. I understand that people here don't like to be seen.

Truthfully, neither do I—yet here I am, wrapped in a translucent, sparkly outfit. Visibility is non-negotiable.

But when I watch the bottles, the vibrant liquids swirling inside, they're all I see. They make it easy to forget anyone else is around.

The girl from the bar once told me never to go upstairs. I nodded, more focused on trying to remember her name—something I always forget. Glass.

Ice.

Pour.

More ice.

Serve the drinks.

Stare at bottles and bubbles.

They've become my new idols, trapped behind glass, just out of reach.

Today, my ritual is broken by the arrival of some very important assholes. In my periphery, I see tuxedos. One of humanity's great flaws is that our peripheral vision is more sensitive than direct sight.

Unfortunately, I notice them. They order elaborate cocktails that take at least ten minutes to make. I tell them we're out of ingredients for those. I don't have the energy to endure them any longer than necessary.

They head upstairs, and I hear Silvie instructing some of the girls to follow.

"Coming to the show tonight?" Silvie asks, turning toward me unexpectedly.

Damn. I usually sneak out early on Fridays to avoid these. Those tuxedoed assholes must have distracted me.

"Sure," I say, because I can't afford to lose this job. I have a few more hours before tonight's "main event."

It's supposedly the biggest show of the week, the circus's grand finale. I've never seen it, but I imagine some cabaret act designed for drooling, priest-like men.

I turn back to the bottles, but something stirs inside me. I think of my old painting of a cabaret. Back then, I would have died to see something like it. I thought dance was the purest form of freedom, the human spirit untethered.

Now, it feels like I'm constructing my own devices of torture. Memories surface: nude photos of me on the academy wall, my best friend spreading rumors behind my back, and that damn painting rotting in a dumpster by the academy.

"It's starting. Come on," Silvie calls. Only now do I realize how much time I've wasted drowning in these memories. I enter the main stage and sit next to Silvie to observe the show.

The lights go down completely until only a small, very small light appears on the stage. In a room this dark, even peripheral vision doesn't help, and that thought makes me happy somehow.

From a single light, there are many now. The lights move and create shapes. Then a bit more light from a reflector reveals that it's the girls' outfits glowing in the dark.

The stage is covered in black, sparkly sand, and the girls roll in it now. They all wear black clothes from head to toe—no skin visible. Almost like nuns.

Nuns in a brothel, I think. What a blasphemy! I love it.

The sand shifts as they dance, revealing parts of the stage that weren't visible before. Then the music grows louder. It's a live orchestra beneath the stage. The drums beat louder and louder, challenging something. When the drums stop, the girls cease dancing, and the lights go down again.

Suddenly, their clothes ignite, illuminating their performance. The frenzied dance continues until there are no clothes left. Then the drums beat in rhythm with a heartbeat. With each heartbeat, we catch glimpses of the stage.

The girls are not naked, but their breasts and intimate parts are covered in sand—it clings to their skin. With every heartbeat of the drum, we get snapshots of their movements, faster and faster, until they disappear.

"They went into the rooms, you know," Silvie whispers softly to me. "They chose someone to bring with them".

I ignore what she said completely because I am still processing what I just saw. And it was a perfection. My whole artistic expression and career suddenly feel bland, and I don't even know why this performance was so majestic. What do I do with this now? Painting it would bring nothing new to the world. How would I preserve this feeling of magnificence?

I'm out of breath.

It's consuming me.

When I go home, I don't even glance at the bakery. Knowing that feels wrong. It's as if I were desecrating a temple I've been praying at for so long. And I was.

Finally, I think I have a home to go to. And I'm not referring to my physical bed, which I've missed for months, but to my spiritual sanctuary. I have a part of me that is alive.

I stare at my ceiling, and as exhaustion washes over me, my mind begins to sink into the bed, into darkness, into blissful black sands.