I'm waiting for you

2.

White, white everywhere. The forest has vanished. The rain too. She does not know where she is. She sits down, then examines her body. The blood has disappeared, the pain too. As if she could not believe it, she observes her hands.

Little by little, without her noticing, the decor changes. Feathers, strass, lights. The noise, also, returns. Hasty steps, music, laughter.

"Sarah!"

The voice of her colleague pulls her out of her contemplation in a startle. She raises her eyes. Her reflection with the lips painted in red reflects her image to her. Behind her, a pretty brunette in glittery underwear observes her, an eyebrow raised.

"So! What do you wait for? It is our turn in five minutes and you are still not dressed!"

She opens her mouth, then closes it again. The other young woman turns around and walks away, her high heels clicking firmly on the floor. Had she dozed off for a moment? The road to her new life, the accident, the mysterious silhouette. Was it all a dream? Probably stress. She lets out a sigh and opens her satin robe while getting up. The fabric caresses her immaculate skin in the passage. The bruises also disappeared. Chasing from her mind the last jolts of her dream, she reaches the hanger on her left which contains nothing more than a sequined outfit similar to that of her colleague and a black jacket with sequins. An outfit that leaves nothing to the imagination and reveals without modesty her graceful curves. Once ready, she checks one last time her false eyelashes and the red on her lips. She then puts on her pumps, then sets on her head a black top hat that contrasts with her hair so pale. It is the moment to enter on stage. She puts a fake smile on her face before running after other young women dressed identically.

The music starts and the too loud basses resound in her. Perched on her heels of twelve, she sways. The choreography is simple. As the one that the girls call Bonne mère says so well, it is not performance, but fantasy that they sell. She clenches her jaw without breaking her smile as she slides her glittering jacket down her arms. Her aspirations of as a dancer in prestigious cabarets seem to her very far. She had imagined a life of glamour, champagne and glitter, but now she finds herself wiggling in front of a horde of men and women who will soon slip her a ticket or two to have a drink with her or a dance in one of the small salons. The rules of these private moments are strict. Physical contact is forbidden, which suits her very well. Unlike some girls who don't hesitate to break the rules to make ends meet. Not Sarah. She might have put aside her dreams of Crazy Horse or Moulin Rouge to land in this shabby place, but she would never cross that line. As the last notes rang out, she left the stage.