Black Burlesque

by L. C. Castillo

  “Don’t worry about it. Are you sure I can’t give you a ride?”

  There is something so alluring and luxurious about the sound of his voice. If I could breathe his voice in, my blood would turn to thick black smoke. I open up the big red umbrella, shake my head slowly, and walk away. Bucky limps quietly beside me. My heart is pounding in my ears. I’ll be deaf soon, no doubt. I’m sure he can hear it, my heart, my blood rushing. I feel him watching me as I walk away. I feel the warmth of his gaze travel up my spine. If I could run, I would, but Bucky can’t handle that now.

  Relief floods me as I cross the street. Not only is there separation between us, but also the rain has mellowed again so now I can reflect on what I just saw, and felt.

  The stranger has a chiseled face, a perfectly carved nose and full, sensual lips. He is without a doubt the most handsome man I have ever seen. Like a character out of one of my beloved classic films, or a wet dream come to life... My body won’t stop shaking. I have never been is such close proximity to a man like that. I close my eyes and the image of his strong and defined jawline pops into my head. A chill runs through me, and I will my dog to move faster. His limp is getting a little less severe the further we go. Thankfully the trek back home is even and there are no hills.

  Once I am back onto my street, my breath quickens yet again. My heart starts to pound loudly, and I feel as though I am being followed. I walk as casually as I can, but it’s as though I can feel him close by. I steel a glance behind me and see a gorgeous cream-colored, vintage Mercedes; it has to be from the early 1960’s cruising quietly beside me. I continue walking and before long I am at my shop doors unlocking and sliding them open with shaky fingers.

  Bucky stumbles inside before me. I turn and gaze out at the street from my doorway and the car pauses just before me. I am frozen for a moment as I feel the strangers gaze rather than see it. I know that it’s him even though I can’t actually see through his fog-covered windows. But I feel that burn...I can feel his penetrating gaze burning through me. After a torturous minute, he continues driving down the street.

  How odd that he would follow me home and not ask for his umbrella back. I watch as his car dips out of view. I am rooted to the spot. I’m reeling, my body humming with a new and unfamiliar feeling.

  I eventually turn and walk inside my shop and toss the expensive looking umbrella into the trashcan so that it doesn’t drip all over the floor. I pull off my rain boots in a daze. My breath slows and the anxiety that was building slowly dissipates. I walk over to Bucky and kneel down to him at the bottom of the steps.

  How on earth am I going to get him up the stairs? I hug him close to me and decide to keep him in the kitchen. Like myself, Bucky isn’t the most social, so I know he won’t bother any customers should I have any more today. He follows me to the kitchen and curls up next to my old O’Keefe and Merritt stove since it is always warm.

  I brew myself an espresso on the stovetop, and sit at the table thinking of the strangers face. His face is perfection. The way I felt around him was not. Bucky falls asleep quickly, as though he knows to leave me with my own thoughts.

  How did the stranger see my dog? How was he not blinded by the rain like I was? Was I rude? Bells jingle, and I am transported back to the present as a costumer enters through the doors of my shop.

  Chapter 2

  By 6 o’clock the rain has stopped. This much rain for October is unusual, but I appreciate it. Especially when I’m indoors. I trudge upstairs to change into my ballet gear, realizing for the first time that my clothing is still damp and muddy. It’s as if I was in a trance. I’ll probably get sick now. Great.

  I jump into my closet and throw on a pair of black tights, black shorts, and a tight camisole. I put my rain boots on over my leg warmers, throw my ballet slippers into a bag and zip up my hoodie. I’m looking forward to class tonight. I need the distraction, and I need to relieve some of the pent up energy my body is harboring.

  This has been an interesting Monday for me, I think to myself as I grab my iPod. I trot downstairs to my rusty old red bike.

  Lost in the music, I arrive at Kazumi’s ballet studio as if I teleported there. I don’t even remember the ride. Alton Ellis’s voice will do that to me.

  On top of choreographing The Mercuries and being in charge of entertainment at The Speak Easy, Kazumi owns and runs a beautiful little ballet studio in Uptown. I’ve been taking ballet lessons with Kazumi for three years now and it has helped my figure tremendously. Since starting, my soft hourglass figure is more sculpted and defined. My legs and rear end are shapely and toned, my waist, tight and narrow. I’m petite and curvy so I need exercise to keep lean. Fortunately, ballet happens to be my favorite form of exercise and meditation.

  The other dancers are already there in the studio, warming up at the barre. Kazumi’s studio is of course in an old historic concrete building, but she completely modernized the inside. Somehow, she managed to gain my approval.

  Nearly everything in the studio is white. Small crystal chandeliers adorn the ceiling, and the walls are all mirrored, so that it appears as though there is light coming from every direction. The flooring is a very pale wood, and her office, which faces the front corner of the studio, is walled off in glass. She has a white desk, a white desk chair, and even her computer is white.

  It is posh, understated and simple with small touches of femininity here and there. Over all, it is very minimalist, very Kazumi.

  I am not a fan of modern, nor am I a fan of gutting anything historic. I love anything with a history behind it. Kazumi’s space, however, manages to still radiate warmth as she maintained the integrity of the space, and left some of the architectural detail in tact. I feel a sense of calm just by walking in through the heavy glass doors.

  I put away my sweater and rain boots and tie on my ballet slippers. I close up my locker and find Jordan sitting in Kazumi’s office. I tiptoe inside.

  “Are you still playing hooky?” I ask, genuinely interested. He’s never here during practice.

  “Something like that. Kazumi wants to go for drinks after class. You’ll come with us.”

  “Um...ok, actually, yes! You know what? I could use a drink,” I say with an enthusiastic smile. I should have known my response would perk Jordan’s interest. It’s usually a process for he and Kazumi to convince me to go out to a bar, or to go out and do anything, really.

  I haven’t been 21 long, so my drinking experience is pretty limited, but my encounter and unnerving reaction to the stranger have left me feeling disoriented and uneasy. A drink and some numbness should set me straight, I think.

  “Really? Oh, well that’s a good sign then. I think the night will go smoother than I anticipated,” he says with a huge grin. I have no idea what he means, but I don’t want to be alone tonight.

  I breeze through class, and enjoy the calm it brings me. I listen to Kazumi’s soft voice giving us our instructions and glide through all of the movements and various positions. I am still surprised at how flexible I’ve become, I’m not a graceful person in life, but in ballet or whenever I’m dancing, I suddenly become a graceful and confident person.

  With my eyes closed, my mind travels back and forth from the stranger, to my mother, back and forth…again and again. I don’t understand why, there is no apparent connection between the two that I know of, but something about him has brought forward warm and painful memories of my past. Up until now, those memories have remained hidden in the furthest corners of my mind.

  My mother came to the United States from Cuba on a roughly constructed raft. I was in her belly then. I never met my father and I have no idea what happened to him. My mother never spoke of him; she refused to, actually.

  When my mother was a young girl, she obsessed over classic Hollywood films. Cuba is a time capsule of the 1950’s, and even though my mother was born in the late 70’s, she was in love with the older eras. She and I used to cuddle up and watch old black and white films we’d check out from the
library. She taught me to sew, and restore all things old. She was a young mother, but to me she always seemed very wise. It’s been a while since I’ve yearned and missed her like this. I’m a kettle full of emotion today.

  As soon as class is over, Jordan hurries me along. “Don’t take forever, Lenore, I’ll be waiting for you at the shop,” he shouts at me as I slowly untie my ballet slippers. Jordan drove, so he’ll be at my shop before me and will most likely be in my closet picking out my clothes when I get home. I don’t mind, he has great taste; I just wish I could back out. But I can’t now. Not without a fight.

  I ride home slowly, my ear buds in my ears though there is no music playing. I listen to my bicycle tires drive over the wet pavement. I listen to my breathing, soft and slow. This is how to breathe like a normal person, in and out, nice and steady. I need to remember this if I ever encounter another handsome stranger.

  I need to remember to find my real voice, not that scared quiet voice that came out of me. That was the voice of the old me. I’m a woman now, sort of, and I put that scared little girl behind me years ago.

  Until very recently, I thought I could live like Kazumi. She can appreciate an attractive person, but she has no drive or desire to be with anyone. She gives all of her passion to her career, and to dance. Aside from Kazumi and Jordan, I’ve only socialized with Maggie and her old-timer friends, so I’m inexperienced in many ways. My upbringing deprived me of a lot. I’ve always been home-schooled, and my childhood was short-lived and very tumultuous.

  I get my gratification from recreating and refurbishing clothing and goods from another lifetime. Bringing life to the old, the neglected and forgotten. Reading classic stories and watching films of great and tragic romance just about do the trick whenever I’m feeling lonely and feel the need for romance stirred within me. Not to mention my collection of erotic romance novels could rival that of an adult bookstore.

  I could experience these feelings through my books and movies, and then return to my secure and placid life. I thought this was enough to keep me in a safe, sane place.

  Apparently not, because the first handsome man I’ve ever encountered has turned me into an anxious ball of aroused energy. Now I’m unsure if my self-imposed isolation is enough for me. I don’t like this feeling bubbling inside me. I can’t put a finger on what exactly I’m being faced with.

  “He-llo! Are you coming in?” Jordan yells at me from my apartment window upstairs. How long have I been in front of my shop? Where the hell is my head today? I shake all the thoughts from my mind and roll my bike into the shop. I guess Jordan remembered where I keep my spare key after all.

  Before heading upstairs I go and check on Bucky, but find he is no longer in the kitchen. Relief sweeps through me, he must be feeling better if he was able to get upstairs. I run up the steps two at a time and fling the door open to my upstairs apartment. It takes me a minute to wrap my head around what I’m seeing. Jordan is slow dancing around my little living area. He has a long stem in his mouth, the kind used for cigarettes, and one of my black pillbox hats with an attached birdcage. This is a sight.

  I can’t help but laugh. Bucky rests on my couch, he knows he’s not supposed to be on the furniture. “Bucky, down! Come here.” I shake my head at Jordan as Bucky clambers off the couch.

  Jordan winks at me and removes the hat, setting it on top of one of my bookcases. The scent of marijuana hangs heavily in the air. I’d fight with Jordan about his marijuana use, but he’s a lot less irritable and anxious when he uses it. So all I can do is ask him to open a window. I watch Jordan as he plucks the joint from the stem and puts it out on his tongue. Ouch! He doesn’t even flinch. Jordan turns the volume down on my old turntable and Ella Fitzgerald’s voice instantly quiets. He opens a window and the smoke wafts out into the street.

  Bucky trots over to me without so much as a limp, I bend down for further inspection and press on his leg, all the way down to his paw. Nothing. Not a single whimper or wince. That’s odd.

  “Something wrong with his leg?” Jordan asks with slight concern in his voice. I think it best to leave out the details.

  “I took him for a walk today and he slipped in the mud. I thought he hurt himself.”

  “He’s fine now, right?”

  “Apparently. Okay, so what am I wearing then?”

  Jordan’s eyes light up. “Ah, well let’s see!”

  He skips off to my closet and begins moving things around on the rack. He pulls out a deep blue wiggle dress. It’s vintage, circa nineteen-forty-something. It doesn’t look like much, but when it’s on, it’s pretty damn sexy.

  “Are we going somewhere dressy? What am I missing?” I mentally check off their birthdays. Nope. No ones birthday.

  “Uh, kind of. I thought we’d go for dinner and drinks at The Speak Easy. Kazumi is thinking of working a Monday gig with the girls and has to speak with the owner tonight.”

  I stare at him. “Oh, do you feel like being around a bunch of fancy pants people? Because that wasn’t what I had in mind,” I grumble. The disappointment is settling in. Why did I agree to come? I was thinking we would stay in town for a casual drink and bar bite. This is not something I often look forward to, so I am confused and more than a little annoyed.

  “You’ve never even been there!”

  “Yes I have,” I counter.

  “Once! And we picked Kazumi up when the club was already closed. The people there are great, it’s eclectic. And the food is always five-star.”

  I make a face and roll my eyes. I wasn’t in the mood for an actual meal, I was thinking of downing a few cocktails, snacking on chicken wings and coming back home to my PJ’s. Coming home and falling asleep without the opportunity to think, dead asleep, in that lovely thick haze only alcohol can create; which isn’t like me. So of course the one night that I actually want to do what a normal girl my age does, it backfires on me.

  “Whatever,” I mumble irritably.

  I take a lengthy shower and am attacked by Jordan and Kazumi as I exit my small bathroom. They are both dressed and looking impeccable! Jordan dries my hair and then ties it into a chic chignon. Kazumi applies my makeup and remains eerily quiet, which is okay, considering my mind is in the clouds today.

  On a regular day-to-day basis, I only wear black liquid eyeliner in a classic cat eye, no mascara because my lashes are thick and dark. I’ll wear red lipstick if I’m in a particularly bold mood. My lips are full, so I rarely try to attract more attention to them.

  Tonight, however, is different. My skin is buffed and looking flawless, Kazumi has swept a rosy shade of blush across my cheeks; my eyes still have their classic liner, but now have smoky brown and gold hues artfully smeared across the lids. It brings out my green eyes. My lashes are layered with so much mascara they look fake and my lips are painted a matte crimson.

  Wow.

  I don’t understand why they felt I needed such a drastic makeover and I don’t want to ask. I already want to get the night over with. All I can think about is how much I wish I would have lost my dog wearing something a little more like this blue wiggle dress. That way, should I happen across a gorgeous stranger, I wouldn’t look like a mud monster; I’d look like a confident and sophisticated woman. I blush thinking about what I looked like just a few hours ago. What a transformation. Kazumi and Jordan should work as a team giving desperate women, such as myself, glamorous makeovers. They’d make a killing.

  I collect vintage clothing and shoes because I love them, but my cocktail dresses and pumps hang in my closet as decoration. I rarely use them. I stick to flats and oxfords mostly. So when Jordan pulls out a pair of black, patent leather pumps from my closet I can already feel my heels getting sore.

  We arrive quickly; Kazumi and Jordan were speaking amiably the entire drive. I ignored them both. My mind has been elsewhere.

  Blue eyes. Blazing. Burning. I squirm in the backseat.

  Desire.

  Lust.

  Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s wh
at I’m experiencing. I never realized the agony it could make a person feel. I close my eyes and can visualize his lips...so full, I wonder idly if they’re as soft as they look. I shake my head to dispel my thoughts. I’ve been locked away in the shop for too long. I need to get the fuck out of my head right now.

  The security guard greets Kazumi with a genuine smile, and looks appreciatively in my direction, less so at Jordan, who is scowling at him. Once we make it past security and the short trek up a flight of stairs, butterflies explode in my stomach. Loud brassy music fills the room, causing my heart to thump in rhythm to the bass. I grip Jordan’s arm as I take it all in.

  The Speak Easy resides in a gorgeous old building. Enormous chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and ornate sconces adorn the walls. They cradle red bulbs and give off a warm and sexy, ambient feeling. The floors are shiny black, and the furniture is dark wood and rich soft leather. The bar boasts intricate baroque mirrors, and shelves and shelves of liquor of all different shades. The waitresses and bus boys are all dressed in black and white 1920’s style attire.

  Soon enough I see that Jordan is right, this place isn’t stuffy, and the crowd is eclectic with a mixture of all ages. Everyone is bustling with a happy and positive energy. It’s contagious. I feel it spreading to me; I feel it reaching its long wispy fingers into my dark little soul and rooting out all of the shadows.

  We’re shown to a small circular table in front of the stage and given chilled champagne on the house. I take a sip, and finally, a smile spreads across my face. I take in my surroundings and allow myself to be infected by the good vibes. I can feel something inside of me changing, shifting, and begging for attention.