“I drink to the fallen. I drink to the liminal dark. I drink to the war within.”
One chord without mate and meter played on through the air. An assembly of black waist coats and pink chiffon all stared, struck dumb by the resonating tone from the pianist on the stage, a single woman in gray.
They came from temperature controlled homes and in sleek silver black cars. From worlds without want or worry but leisure and pleasure. Not one of the hundred faces could tell her about hunger, but they were hungry.
They were tired and beaten. The women ripped off their expensive false nails, the men felt invisible four day beards and the ghostly cold of old sweat under their shirts.
“I am the water for hot work. The satisfaction of pain ended. I am lost to you.”
Still fine and free, perfumed and puffed, each dancer folded into a writhing heap. Crying to the cold marble, the gilt molding, and the empty stage.