[2025]

I’m at an opera. The last I’ll ever go to. The long black dress and the heels make me feel regal. My black hair matches and slides to the middle of my back. Curled and styled. Underneath my slinky dress, a tiny firework to distract everyone and a small knife to kill myself or kill someone else. Whatever is more likely.

My hair has made me a target. I see the eyes of desire. Staring. They want it. They want to hold it.

A woman brushes up against me and pulls it. Trying to check if it’s real I see. I need to be careful.

I give a glance back. And smile. Yes, woman, it is real.

"You have very wonderful hair. I’m a bit jealous. Do you plan to sell it?"

"Why on Earth would I sell it? I think it looks better on me anyway."

"Hmph" she retorts as she storms away.

I am here to observe the singer. The hit. The opera event itself is a circus. I watch the lead man, the target, belt out words in an unused language. A tongue forgotten. Up and down, up and down. I’m too busy watching his chin bobble to care for the music. This is unnecessarily distracting.

After the performance, I make my way backstage. To where we are all meant to meet him, praise him. I stay by the food, imagining that this is the first place this obese man will go. The tarts. The sausages and steaks. Countless pieces of meat. It has been so long since I've eaten animal protein that the smell makes me nauseous. I don’t even know what it tastes like anymore. I crave the simplicity of the meal supplements and soy protein back at the bunker.

"You look unsure of what to grab. Grab one of everything."

It is the singer. He leans in next to me and grabs a chicken leg.

He takes a bite. “Come on, eat something.”

"Oh, I mustn't. How will I stay thin?"

"Thin isn’t very popular anymore. If you have weight it shows your wealth and health."

"I’d rather not. I prefer to have my flexibility." I try to say in the coyest and seductive lilt. 

"Flexibility, huh. For what?" He smiles and stares at my hair then at my chest. 

I can see his greasy hands going for my hair. I flip it back to avoid his touch. I don’t want evidence of him on me.

"Why do you think I need flexibility?"

His smile is overwhelmingly optimistic. He thinks he will get some.

I take a breath and return to the bubbly, hyper narcissist that I’m playing today.

I dance around him fluidly. 

"I don’t think I’ve see you dance before. Ballet?"

"You probably wouldn’t have seen me dance. I don’t like big audiences."

"Ah, you look like a dancer! I should have known. That is why you do not eat." 

No, I do not eat because I would die from this shit.  I refrain from saying back.

"I want to get to know you more. Where do you dance? What is your name? Will you dance for me?"

"I want to know you. What is your fantasy? What do you love besides singing? Tell me a secret and I will tell you everything. I’ll let you pet me if you’re good." 

I take him to my hotel room and as soon as the door closes. He becomes aggressive. He turns me around pushes me down to the bed.

"I bet you like it hard."

While pulling my hair, he lifts the back of my dress. I instinctively reach for his greasy hands on my hair, but realize I know exactly what to do.

"Turn me around. I want to see you." I say as sexy and as sweet I can.

"No, you like this don’t you."

"Pretty please. Turn me around"

"You’re such a dirty girl."

He flips me over and when he does I place my hand inside my bra, faking pleasure from touching my own breast.

He stares at me in disbelief.

I grab my knife from inside my dress and cut his throat. He’s too damn loud.

-----

I hold the last of my hair in my hand pulling it with anger. I can feel the tug of my scalp and the relief when the scissors cut the pressure. What a silly thing. We all have this. There is nothing special. I cut it off and let it go.