another night at the club

..They burn out cigarettes as if there is no light at the end of the tunnel.
Everybody who appears to go to 'Madame Saxx' Jazz Club' , seems to be rather melancholy and dramatic. They smoke just out of the boredom of not smoking. And run out of cigarettes before the first act appears on stage.
She stumbles with her feet when walking on stage, because of all the smoke that has gathered around her ankles. The mixture of tobacco and herbs that is smoked at the club, is so heavy that it acts like an imaginary chain on her feet. Every step she takes toward the stage weighs down on her. Her shoulders begin to press down her collarbone and yet, with smoke chains around her bare feet, she tries to hold onto her notebook. That notebook has all kinds of secrets hidden between the two leathery covers. Only a single thin leather strap holds all those pages of secrets together, as she adds pressure onto the notebook pressed against her bustier.
She chose to wear a bustier that morning, under all those layers of material.
She has so many guards built up. Not only does the bustier work as a metal armor, but the layers she puts on every day push back all the bullshit she has to put up with from the men she works with -or for.
The poems she writes in her notebook's pages are mostly about her job.
She goes on about the physical pain she has to tolerate with in her job. The notebook has seen it all.
-So, she continued her death march on stage. Knowing that somewhere in the audience, there'd be at least one of her clients. She glanced over the smoke that swam across the fresh air in the room, and saw nothing. The spotlight from the projector, over the back, was too bright.
When she got to the stage, cleared her throat, and put off pressure from the clasp which she was holding on the notebook. She began reading her poem, called 'My body is a Temple' . By every word she recited, the smoke cleared off her ankles, and so did the anxiety of getting up on stage. The smoke chains were just imaginary, but enough to make her heart race twice its speed.
A wave of rhythmically snapping fingers broke some of the smoke in the air. And she was smiling through it all, at the end of her poem.

SNAP.

(to be continued..)
-thegirlwithcurls