The regulars turn their heads and squint their beady eyes at me. They erupt into groggy cheers and whistles. I stretch my mouth into a smile. 

“Welcome back, kid.”

Tatiana steps forward in her absurdly tall heels and squeezes me to her chest. Red hair down to her waist. My lips tremble so I dig my front teeth into them. She cups my face with her warm hands. "You're skin and bones,” and sighs. Her breath smells of perfume. “Your hair’s grown a lot.”

Sharp nails through my ends.

“Don’t cut off too much.”

She walks back to her chair and I follow, “I won’t, I won’t,” she laughs. 

Boxy radio that dates back to the Soviet Union wheezes out music through a layer of static. The Romanians sigh over homemade vodka. They sit in a corner of the salon and debate whether or not democracy’s failing back in the old country. 

What's the point of wondering when they live so far away, they can’t even afford to have their coffins flown over the fucking Atlantic to be buried in that wretched soil we pretend to despise so much? 

This is as close to home as it gets with our broken French.

“I’ll brush it out a little,” Tatiana says.

Next to me, a girl looks away when our eyes meet. Hers are red and teary. 

“Have you seen Lucky yet?”

“No.”

Tatiana sticks her skinny fingers in my hair. It makes me jerk away. The wheels creak under the chair. It shifts on the stained, linoleum floor. Hate that I still flinch. 

"You guys remember when Lucky was a little shit running around carrying that atlas around like it was some fucking treasure?”

One of the older men gives out a laugh followed by an unhealthy fit of coughing. Sounds like smashing eggs together. Our days are numbered.

Bald heads nod, suddenly lost in memories painted in the shade of golden melancholy. We’re prone to falling into self-glorified pools of sorrow. 

Over the music and the chatter, the door opens and the Salamander’s ridiculous cackle spills in before he does. Wrapped in his white fur coat. He’s all sunshine and freaking smiles. Perfect rows of veneers. The conversation doesn’t pause. Sadly, everyone’s too used to him.

"She's been all frowns and in the dumps these past few days," the Salamander says loudly and gives the girl across from me a manly pat on the back. It shakes up her entire upper body.  “Cédric?”

I turn my head discreetly. 

     “Look, Bubble,” he goes on, squeezing the girl’s arm. “This is the new barman over at the Hibiscus.”

Cédric wipes his mouth of the remaining traces of shaving cream, as if he'd just finished a slice of pie, and gives Bubble a short nod. 

"You guys have any free spots for tonight’s show? I hear it’s supposed to be some kind of special event. It would do her some good, too.”

“Does she want to dance?”

The Salamander licks his lips. Bubble’s head hangs down.

"Ah, she's a newbie. You can tell, huh? Hell of a good eye, you have, sir.”

It’s easy to see she hates dancing in the darkness of the showroom. In front of zoned-out eyes and far-off brains buried in fantasy. In front of gaping mouths and wet smiles. Bet it gets her skin crawling in shivers.

 "But she moves like a cat. And purrs like one, too." He winks and slaps his own leg. 

Doesn’t pay an ounce of attention to her, sitting there beside him. She's just a living, breathing source of income, after all. Just like the other girls. That's what good products do. They sell for sweet money.

“Well, I don’t make the decisions," Cédric says wearily. 

The previous barman was an ex-bodybuilder. Filled up an entire doorway and had to duck when he walked into a room. He wore baggy tank tops instead of crisp button-up shirts and made sure the girls had plenty to eat. Dotted on them. I wonder what happened to him.

"I'll be right back. Seems Anya's done." 

Once the Salamander's out of sight, Bubble shuts her eyes and sighs. The fake lashes she has on seem heavy and uncomfortable.     

"Oh, honey," one of the girls says, rushing over to her side with a wad of tissues in her hand. "You'll ruin your makeup."

Fat tears fall from Bubble's eyes and stream down her generously blushed up cheeks. A bout of hiccups. She buries her face in her naked arms. The stylists gather around her to offer some sort of consolation. 

Cédric stands up. Maybe he's tired of seeing people sob in front of him. Part of the barman's therapist curse, I guess.

"Bubble?" My eyes move toward the sharp-sounding voice. Injection lips open while she stares. Don't know either of them but it doesn't take me long to figure out they're identical twins. "Come on," she continues, "I know it's you."

When Bubble feels her sister's hands on her bare shoulders, she cries harder. She gives Bubble an awkward pat. Cédric stands there, bent on leaving but baffled at their striking resemblance. His eyes dart back and forth between their faces.

"I had no idea you were coming in today. You didn't return any of my calls." She sits down. Large breasts jiggle in her strappy top and she crosses her long, long legs. "Why didn't you call?"