Bulbs around the mirror, powder puff in hand — the costume sketches on the wall are all dresses she has already outgrown.
Emerald bias-cut at a table for two — the second chair is a coat rack tonight, and the candle doesn't mind.
Brass token № 44 out, palm up — behind her hangs every fur in the building, and none of them are hers.
Newspaper over the curls, marquee glow on the wet alley — ten minutes to places, and the rain is not invited.
Champagne above the footlights — the show below is fine, but the program she's holding has her name penciled in it.
One spotlight, chairs stacked, sequins catching — nobody counts the steps she takes at midnight.
A wall of round boxes and one velvet hat — she already knows which box it came from, and what it cost to leave it.
Gold banister, potted palms, a quartet below — she climbs the stairs the way the hour climbs toward midnight.
Coffee and the gossip column in a ninth-floor suite — last night's name is spelled right, for once.
Cord in, headset on — every secret in the hotel passes twice through her hands and never once through her mouth.
Lipstick, wilted corsage, scattered sheet music — the mirror gets the best hour of her night, and it never tells.
One suitcase, neon in the window, the clock above — the ticket is one-way, and she has not decided yet.