Will-o’-the-wisp

Life is hard to imitate.

Emmerentiana presses a light kiss to the tip of the narrow cigarette and, releasing a cloud of milky smoke, turns a wide, unfaltering smile toward the man whose sharp blue eyes linger on her.

“You can call me Emma,” she says. With her chin up, she dictates a hastily made-up phone number to yet another admirer after her show. 

At least once a week, overly impudent, tipsy men who come to enjoy themselves grab her hands, urging her to sing Hedgehog’s Lullaby once more — the local public love it. Some of them demand her phone number with a slurred tongue and the smell of booze on their breath. 

Over and over, Emma only smiles, her bright red lipstick slipping onto white teeth. She looks up at the security, but there’s no way they’ll risk kicking out the regulars. She has no choice but to smile and quietly slip from their clutches again. 

***

Life is hard to imitate.

Emma has to wash off all that dirt in the shower. Standing under the scalding jets of water, the woman scrolls through memories. She’s tired of trying to get on TV, let alone singing in the small basement club. But life demands rent payments, and eventually other bills. 

Emma dilutes the shampoo with water and washes her over-bleached hair. She’s in no hurry to get out of the hot shower; she enjoys the warmth that spreads over her body. The cramped bathroom fills with a cherry-scented steam. She could hide in it easily if she wished, at least for a little while.

The shower curtain pulls back slightly, and a manicured hand holds out a towel to her, warmed on the heater. The woman turns off the water, takes the towel, and wraps herself in its terry cloth. She climbs over the shower lip, wipes the fogged mirror, and gazes into the eyes of a young woman — enormous, sad eyes, with dark circles of smeared mascara underneath. 

With a little shrug, Emma picks up the hair dryer, plugs it in on the second try, and flicks the switch on and off repeatedly for several minutes. Then she starts drying her hair, tilting her head down. She burns one hand, shifts the hair dryer and burns the other, then burns her neck and chest. She puts the hair dryer aside — perhaps she’ll try again another time.

She clumsily brushes her still damp hair, almost winding it around the brush and pulling it out. She blames it all on stress and fatigue.

Then Emma applies the thick red lipstick that’s always waiting on the shelf next to the lonely toothbrush and toothpaste. It jags slightly beyond the lip contour, but no one will notice.

Nor will anyone notice that she has once again forgotten her robe; she must exit the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She walks to the door and hears the lights clicking on and off in her small studio apartment beyond it. 

What nonsense, Emma thinks to herself with a laugh as she presses the tight handle and clicks the latch open. 

She walks into the small room that serves as her kitchen, living room, and bedroom all at once. A skillet rests on the stove, holding once-frozen vegetables now burnt to a crisp — and next to them, a broken, undercooked egg. Emma walks across the room, slapping her bare, still wet feet against the floor alongside the table, where an unfinished mug of coffee sits. 

She picks it up with both hands, leaving wet fingerprints, and gulps down the bitter drink, wrinkling her nose. After wiping her mouth with her hand and smearing the lipstick all over her face, the girl notices a shiny blue dress lying on the floor, the same one worn during last night’s performance. 

It smells of burnt caramel and musk and shimmers with sequins, but her gaze drifts past it, across the floor, to the wall with the black screen.

Swaying and wiggling her hips in the towel, the woman steps around the dress, heads to the couch, picks up the remote, and turns on the TV without looking. She clicks again and again, switching channels without even glancing at the screen. Emma sighs heavily, adjusting the towel on her chest.

Life is hard to imitate.

Barely seated on the couch, the girl feels something touching her foot — red patent leather high-heeled shoes, tossed here a few days ago. Emma immediately puts them on, but she spends a long time fiddling with the uncomfortable ankle strap. 

Once finished, she stands and walks towards the center of the tiny room and starts dancing to her own tune, which she purrs out in a husky voice. 

Emma would like to sing something from her repertoire, but instead of words, she howls and wheezes, “Ee-mhe-au-u.”

Life is hard to imitate.

Emma dances toward the stove, swaying awkwardly on those heels and waving her arms. She hits the skillet and knocks the fork in it to the floor. She isn’t bothered by the mess, the wet footprints all over the room, or the newly rearranged figurines — all gifts from her admirers. 

Emma hears the light switch clicking again, this time in the bathroom. Then she hears someone turning on the water, but she keeps dancing and striking those false notes. She knows that life is hard to imitate, but they all want to taste it anyway, to absorb every nuance of human life. 

They shape their bodies from condensed water, flood the houses, and seep through the drains. They try to be human so that eventually, they can replace them. 

In the distance, they sense the footsteps outside the door, then the stirring and jingling of keys accompanied by swearing, and the lock turning twice. 

The door opens, but the apartment is quiet, and only water bubbles in a sink full of dirty dishes. 

***

Emmerentiana returns from the club, tired and tipsy. She has to make dinner, which used to be Ryan’s job, before they split six months ago. But she has to wash the dirt off first. Without noticing the mess, she heads to the bathroom. As she approaches the door, she steps over the towel lying on the floor. 

---

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