Rounds (Act II)

Mademoiselle Juliette n’a pas vraiment la tête, that voice slinking out over the driving beat, choisir entre Montague, Capulet, two women on the stage that fills one end of the dark red room, the same high white wigs piled atop their heads, the same blued eyes under elaborately painted brows, the same striking noses, very similar breasts bared over embroidered corsets, long wide-hipped skirts parted before like curtains over the same frothy confusion of lacey underwear and garters and stockings, all dusty pinks and ivories and pale blues and paler golds. Stepping daintily back and forth to that enormous beat hands out to either side just so, one of them holding a fan, the other a handkerchief. Cette commedia del’arte n’est pas assez déjantée sings that slinking voice, and they dip and sashay in unison stepping free of their skirts leaving them upright and empty behind, long legs bare hips turning and ducking and stopping then one of them tilting her head back the other looking over her shoulder. “Jackie!” she yells over the beat. “Jackie the goddamn lights!” And then a smile blooming her voice climbing, cooing, “Leo!”

“Ettie, darling,” calls the Duke, there by the bar. “Could we?” Waggling a finger in the air at the music.

“Jackie!” she bellows. “Cut it!” The other dancer’s stepped down from the stage, she’s wriggling her way into a long sheer robe, careful of her wig. The music stops mid-Juliette. A woman pops up from behind the bar, spiky red hair and a faceful of freckles, a sleeveless black T-shirt and skinny arms festooned with tattoos. “You want it again from the top?” and then her scowl unfolding eyes widening her voice a shriek, “Jessie!” Planting her hands on the bar she hops it in a single practiced bound. “Goddamn girl!” Dodging tables past the Duke and Jo and Ysabel to swallow the blond woman in the grey chauffeur’s uniform jacket with a spinning, staggering hug.