Vox Nihilim

She wipes the thick layer of makeup away from her eyes in long smeared drags. The lights from the cheap dressing room mirror cast yellow-toothed shadows across her freshly uncovered skin. It looks gray and cracked compared to the bright white of the pancake. The costume jewels lie like deliberate monoliths around the perimeter of a stained and half-filled ashtray. Tall skinny fingers of smoke grasp at the heavens only to be swirled to nothingness by the noisy ceiling fan with the bad bearing. She tries not to look too closely at the blooming wrinkles around her eyes. She wills herself not to rub her feet. She won't even unwrap them here amongst the piles of discarded costumes and frilly dresses. She has some dignity left. She will wait until she is safe in her tiny apartment with the broken tile in the bathroom to survey tonight's damage. She slips her arms gingerly into the stained gray trench coat of her father's long ago, and bundles it in tightly to her waist with a dramatic tug on the belt.

It's not until she opens the door that she hears the rain. It rolls in thick streams off the soffits and tumbles in torrents along the rusting grid work of the fire-escapes overhead. Just down the alley, the rush of traffic scatters newborn puddles every which way, before they even have a chance to sparkle in the light of the running marquee. She draws the collar up tight and sets off into the night, limping in a way that advertises her exhaustion but belies her strength.