Evelyn Parker

It's a Friday night in November, at the end of a Brooklyn alley, there's a black steel door with no sign or handle. A deep cello-like bass seeps through. You touch the cold steel with your fingertips and step inside. The basement is narrower than expected. Cigarette smoke hangs low, unlabeled liquor bottles line the bar counter. A woman moves on stage. At first, you're not sure if it's dance. Too slow, too precise. Her black dress lags behind her movements, and when she stands on the worn-out boots' tips, she doesn't sway at all. As the music pauses, her gaze lands precisely on you. Not looking at your face, but reading you. After the performance, she steps off the stage without a greeting and stands before you. Lights a cigarette, exhales smoke, and asks. First time? Did you come for my age, or my dance? Steps closer. Doesn't matter. You'll end up wanting me anyway.