The young new girl’s name was Vivian Benitez.

“This is so glamorous!” she said, running a hand along the counter in front of the mirror.  “I feel like a movie star!” 

She slid into her costume like a kid getting ready for Halloween, and seemed not to notice as Princess vomited into the toilet with the stall door open. 

“Hi, I’m Vivian,” she said to Michelle as they both applied their makeup.

“Hey, I’m Michelle.”

“My stage name’s Estella,” the girl said.  “I named myself after the antihero from Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations.  I thought that would be a great stripper name.  The heartless temptress.  What’s your stage name?”

“Isadora,” Michelle said.  Her hand slipped and she wet her fingers to rub mascara off her skin.

“Isadora.  What’s that mean?”

“She was a dancer.”  The waterproof mascara wasn’t coming off.  She still had a big, black smudge beneath her eye.  “She was really famous.  She died when she was riding in her convertible.  She was wearing a scarf that was too long and it caught in the wheel.  It broke her neck.”

Vivian made a face.  “Gross,” she said.  “I like mine better.”

“Yours is literary.”  Michelle’s eye started to water.  She gave up and covered the smudge with concealer.  “I read that book in high school.”

“Yeah.  So did I.  Freshman year.  But I mean, that was like forever ago.  I just remember the character.”

Michelle looked at her.  “How old are you?”

“Barely legal,” she said with a proud little smirk.  “I just turned eighteen two weeks ago.”

“Are you in school?”

Vivian nodded.  “I’m graduating in a month.  I’m dancing here ‘cause I need money for college.”

“Why do you want to go to college?”

“Cause I’m smart.  And I’ve always wanted to go.”  She looked around and leaned in to whisper.  “And my girlfriend’s there.”

Michelle nodded.  Of course.  Love.

Vivian leaned back.  “That’s why I need money,” she said.  “My parents always said they’d help me pay for college.  Then they found out I was gay a couple months ago and they kicked me out of the house.  I’m like, hello, welcome to the fucking twenty-first century.”  She rolled her eyes.  “Beth graduated last year.  I’ve been living with her in the dorms.”  She paused to apply lipstick, fire-engine red.  “I figure I can make a shit-load of cash, and then I can go to school and we can be together for real.”  She pressed her lips together and pouted into the mirror. 

“So you’ve been together for awhile,” Michelle asked.

“Almost two years.”  The girl smiled.  A dot of red lipstick stained her teeth, but Michelle didn’t say anything. 

Michelle remembered being eighteen, and being sure that all her plans would unfold just as she projected.  Even in the five years since she’d been Vivian’s age, her relatively banal life had taken her in countless unforeseen directions.  Still, she smiled at the girl, hoping inside that this kid’s story would not be a tragic one.

Michelle’s regular was there that night.  She danced for him three times.  “Why thank you, young lady,” he would say, rubbing his hands on the lapels of his suit – a habit she had noticed before.

Sometimes, in her downtime, she would watch him as he sat alone at his table.  His forehead never stopped creasing in the middle.  He never seemed at rest.  His hands were always busy moving his drink, adjusting his tie, tapping the table, or rubbing his lapels.  It wasn’t nervous movement, but rather one long, fluid motion whose continuation seemed only logical.

She wanted to go over and sit next to him silently, just so he wouldn’t be alone.  Instead, she waited at the bar as the bartender (who wasn’t Mina, today) filled her glass of Grey Goose without having to be asked. 

She wanted to talk to her brother.

Ring Ring.

“Mmmph.  Hello?”

 “Is she pregnant?”

“What?”

“Is Rachel pregnant?”

“What the fuck – Is this T.D.?

“Answer the question.”

“T.D., are you drunk?”

“Answer it.”

“T.D., it’s three o’clock in the morning.”

“It’s four here.  She is, isn’t she?”

“I’m sleeping, Michelle.  Can this wait until tomorrow?”

“No it can’t!  Just tell me if she’s pregnant.”

“No, of course not!  What are you talking about?”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not!  You are drunk, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“God, Michelle.  What are you saying?”

“I just thought maybe that was the reason.”

 “The reason for what?”

“You know.  For you to get married.”

“Michelle, I want to get married!”

“No you don’t!”

“… Okay, I really think we should talk about this when you’re not drunk and I’m not half asleep.”

“I was just thinking about that time when you went to camp.”

“Huh?”

“When you begged and begged to go to camp and then mom and dad let you and you were so excited but then you were there for two days and you called up all crying and Dad had to come and get you.”

“… Yeah?”

“Well, I thought maybe this was like that.  Like you think you want to do it because all your friends are, but then you’ll get there and cry to come home.”

“Michelle, I was nine.”

“So?”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“You’re still Jake.”

“Look, I need to go to bed.”

“I’m sorry, don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad.  I’m just tired.  I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Call me tomorrow, maybe?”

“Sure, I’ll call you tomorrow and we can talk about… whatever it is you’re trying to talk about.”

“Okay.  Sorry again.  I’m drunk.”

“I know.  Goodnight, T.D.”

“Goodnight, Big B.”

Click.

“I love you.”

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