Chapter 2: Building Tension
Marie Birdsong perched silently on her bedside; a guttering candlelight flickered shadows from her nightstand. Moonlight dappled through her balcony windows and illumined the beige carpets of her one-bedroom apartment. Lifting her feet from the floor, the dancer wriggled her toes. Marie’s ankles crackled as she rolled them in controlled circles, easing the tension from tonight's performance. Birdsong groaned silently wishing for a French pedicure and a Swedish massage. Despite being monikered The Lady in Black the actress fancied shades of white and daffodil. High heels made her already challenging height aggressive, and impetuous men like Giovanni Salvatore were the reason she could not default to her docile nature. ‘Beauty is a privilege. Beauty is pain.’
Marie wished desperately her mother had outlived her 60s. Marie was old enough now to see the flaws in her maternal figure—as well as the inconsistencies in herself. As a child, she’d always regarded her parents as infallible. And even as a teenager, Marie figured her 30s would be a time of motherhood and meek maturity. Life doesn’t just follow some convenient order, though. And beauty was fucking expensive. Wiggling her white-tipped toes, Marie’s ankles popped and she winced feeling every bit of her age. Most ballerinas retired at thirty-five and she was already ten seasons beyond. Lifting from the bed, the songstress ambled toward the washroom in her floral nightgown. Flicking the light switch, she turned the sink faucet and water flushed the ceramic basin. Marie began the process of removing her makeup. She knotted her black tresses into a ponytail, exposing her hairline and the full breadth of her face. She applied fluid to a cotton pad and leaning toward her reflection. Marie cleaned the smokey liner from her eyes, dabbing gently, removing her concealer, and revealing the wizened lines of her face. Wrinkles lightly creased her mouth and the thin corners of her eyes. Marie ran a fingertip along the subtle lines of her face. Like rings on an oak tree, etched for each year she’d been wed to life. "Like fine wine, Dear,” Marie murmured examining her aging visage. For all her talent and getting and going. All she’d surmounted at thirty-seven years were gifts and givers and favors and friends and pretty, pompous depreciating things. The songstress sighed finishing her skincare routine. Examining her reflection, Marie’s lips pursed to a flatline. Her grimace accentuated the stiffening lines of her face. Assuredly, returning home to America wasn’t the worst outcome. There were plenty of middling-aged women absent the luxury of a family to welcome them. Yet, it irked Marie’s pride. Her chest puffed out with indignation. Her mind stormed all possible outcomes. If she cleared her wardrobe, and auctioned the numerous supply of chiffons, cocktail and bodycon dresses she’d have enough money to comfortably survive a year! After which she’d be four seasons older and still in need of a career with healthcare, sick-days and benefits. “Fuck.” Marie cursed so flatly and unceremoniously she flushed in the mirror. Her future had never felt so haplessly decided. She needed this season's theatre to be prolific, and already on the opening night she’d felt both fear, and the horrid feeling of being trivialized. Like a plastic ballerina fitting perfectly inside a music box, to be wound up, twirled, and storaged whenever she ceased to entertain.
“I need a… drink.” Marie restrained herself from cursing for the ‘umpth time tonight. In need of her spirits, Marie