Lady Sings the Blues

I need my damn cigarettes right now if you just move out of the damn way you dimwit what are you a rock it's called a door for a reason get out of my way -

Light light light that cigarette hand stop shaking hold still hand just need that flame to catch-

Ah. Finally.

My hands are becoming too old for this body. Time, that is all I have left. It turned me, from a wide eyed girl in pony tails, holding mama's hand, staring at the seashore of the land of opportunities (where "everything will be different," mama promised) to a lady at the brink of youth and adulthood, so naive, thought my voice would be my savior. "Just one more night, and I get you a spot at Carnegie Hall," he said, and I believed him. Now where am I - leaning against the bricks of a decaying cabaret house, smoking away my nightly wages.

Look at those shady men, dressed to the toe, suits newly ironed by their wifes. They think they got this.Their housewives, washing their dishes in their dainty little aprons as their husbands head off with suitcases, mumbling about working overtime as usual. Instead they are here, drinking away to waste, blurry eyes staring up at the stage, taking in nothing but flashy lights, moving feathers, and legs. Girls whose faces will never be remembered come the next night. We are just entertainment, after all.

Back in my days, singing the blues  at Fantasia (it's long gone now, they smashed into crumbles to make way for a local park, to "clean up the district" as they called it). They called me Pixie, oh the cheers I used to get - I would walk on stage as the final act of the night and watch their eyes light up, salivating like dogs. One promised he was different. He said he would take me away, get me a proper house, with a backyard and a pool, in a quiet little suburb. "Everything will be different," he said, oh ho, and where have I heard that before. Suave, that Jack - I should have seen it coming. 

I have a thousand stories to tell. Memories of back in the day, of hopes, dreams, heartbreaks. With no one to listen, not really - we're too old, battered, rather drown in our own regrets.

No regrets, I say. No regrets, just memories.

So I sing, until tears fall from their eyes, their heads too slow to catch up. We are wasted now, gentlemen, and time is only time. It's too late now; drink up, and have another cigarette.

The End

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