LIMELIGHT.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A SINGER/DANCER AND HER DELIGHT IN THE LIMELIGHT.

Submitted: November 07, 2008

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Submitted: November 07, 2008

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You love the limelight, love being on the stage, love the attention it gives you, brings you, all those people gazing at you from the theatre seats. It gives you the attention you never had as a child being one of seven girls, you number three, always passed by, overlooked, always getting the passed down clothes, the dresses, skirts and coats the elder ones had outgrown or out worn. Or you got the wrong kind of attention, singled out for thrashings, if your father came home in one of his drunken fits, and you were the one nearest or handiest. Now you have achieved the big time with the big boys and girls of the entertainment world, with all its craziness, weirdness, and closeness. You are now a celebrity, you are known wherever you go, you know the men gawk at you from their seats or in the streets or in the restaurants or caf and you known what is on their minds, what it is they are thinking, what it is they’d like to do with you or maybe in some cases to you. Dirty buggers, you often muse, smiling from the stage, singing to them as if they were the ones who mattered, they that you were singing to. And the women, too. Either they gaze at you to admire you and maybe secretly seek to emulate you, or they hate you and would like to see you come to a fall or sad end. But you have fame now after years of being a nobody, a mere working class girl, who’d crawled out of the gutter, who’d been a maid, a barmaid, a Scivvy and singer in dark pubs and now spotted at last, you have fame. You have princes and lords sniffing around you, as if you were some bitch on heat, and they pushing their wet noses around your flesh, desiring, wanting. However, you keep them on the edge of things, so far and no farther, no one gets you for nothing, no one gets you like some whore for a few coins in the hands and one between the thighs. You have prominence now; top of the bill, name at the top of the list. Once you were added on the bottom as an after thought, now you are the leading lady, the one who counts. The public take notice of you, talk of you, talk about you, discuss your goings and comings, who you’ve been with and who you’ve seen. You are their reason for being, their purpose for getting out of their grimy beds, the one they are sitting in the theatre for, for queuing up outside in the cold nights for. You are the subject of men’s dreams, those seamy dreams where you are beside them in their beds, copulating with them instead of their fat or ugly wives. You are probably the subject of some women’s dreams, too. You have overheard them in the clubs, those who whisper and get suggestive if they get close to you. Not that you mind, after all, your Milly, who dresses you and arranges things for you, often shares your bed and thoughts and others things. You inhale on your cigarette, exhale, with a kind of show of the hand. You sip your gin, lifting it high because there is plenty more when that is gone. You love the limelight, the recognition, the renown. You like being there before them singing, dancing, acting on the stage, in the theatre, in the rich restaurants and in those cosy cafes with Milly and those hanger-on’s who are always there like fleas on a dog. However, you know it is all pretence, a sham, a mere passing of time and oh what a waste, you tell yourself at night as you turn over in the big bed alone or cuddling up to Milly and she says: I love you for yourself Lilly, not what you do or for how famous you are. That is it in the end, that human touch, that closeness of at least one other human being, who loves you regardless of anything else, loves you, for being you, in or out of the limelight.


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