Cat In An Aqua Storm

I control my impending sneeze. No princess wishes to be awakened by an asthmatic prince.

Then the idiotic parrot squawks again and a scuffle erupts in the dressing room's far corner. How dare a scaly, foul-mouthed bird disturb the Divine Yvette’s rest? I turn with a swallowed snarl to the site of the disturbance to see two pair of human legs, dancing. They are doing what is known as an Apache dance in chicer circles than I move in, for the black-clad legs are moving purposefully, with vigor. Her naked gams, however, hang mostly limp, kicking idly at the black-garbed shins.

Then I look up, through an undergrowth of fuchsia feathers and past the constellation of sequins. They are not dancing. I glimpse the woman's face, painted into a slightly iridescent mask of beauty that Miss Savannah Ashleigh might envy. Her head is at an odd angle and her apparent partner has lifted her high in his arms, as if she were a ballerina. She seems to be hanging from a necklace of stars with a sad, forlorn tilt to her motionless mask of a face.

Her partner—only a vague back and black legs—scrabbles away, yet she hangs there, swings slowly, idly from an invisible hook. I smell not only the faint, sleeping fragrance of the Divine Yvette but the slow heavy odor of fear. And death.

I duck back under the feathers, Black Legs scissoring past me so fast that a black sneaker as silent as the Grim Reaper stubs its toe on a chair leg. The chair screeches across the concrete, like chalk on a blackboard. Black Legs curses softly, lurches toward the pale pink ark in which slumbers the Divine Yvette, then kicks—kicks!—the Divine Yvette’s sanctuary into the wall and runs from the dressing room.

I am across the floor in one mighty leap, pawing the pink canvas away from the wall. I hear a plaintive, sleepy cry from within. Had the Divine Yvette not been curled up in utter relaxation, such a blow could have been devastating.

The dim light reflects from a dawning glimmer of opening eyes. A cool pink triangle of naked skin presses against the barrier mesh. We inhale deeply, knowing each other in an instant.

The Divine Yvette calls my name in a dazed, bewildered voice....

I can resist no longer. I must sneeze. Being the gentleman that I am, I turn my head—and look up to see the dancing woman suspended above me, her melancholy, tilted face looking down on the reunion of Midnight Louie and the Divine Yvette with the open, empty eyes of a forsaken puppet.