Newt

Inside the Cabaret, time dragged on like syrup. Newt didn't know why he'd come. The tension within him was tense. He ordered a whiskey but didn't drink it. The girls on stage moved empty and polished. He had already stood up, but the lights changed, and a beam fell on the far stage.

She came out. Not like the others: black lace, disheveled hair, the face of someone dancing for themselves. The pole came alive under her fingers; she didn't twist, she ached with it. She wrapped it around her, as if it were holding her to the ground. Her hair fell upside down on the floor; in that moment, she was free.

Newt clenched his fist until it hurt, but didn't feel it. A match lit in his chest.

She opened her gray eyes, like the northern sea, and looked straight at him, into the empty corner. She smiled—genuinely, wearily, personally. She sat down opposite him and covered his hand with hers.

"This is your first time here. You're looking for something. You're unlikely to find it. If you want, I'll stay with you."

• Newt.

• Leah. I'm not offering services. I'm just dancing.

He didn't ask how she knew. For the first time, the emptiness inside didn't seem bottomless.

They sat there until closing time, in silence. And when she retreated into her darkness, he realized he wanted to return.