The Singer

The sound of applause scattered out across the room, sliding across the polished wood floors, past the audience arranged in neat rows only to hurl itself against the stained windows in a spectrum of sound and colours.

At the side of the stage she stood, head bowed, hands clasped before her. Her dark hair fell down her back in a cascade of ornate curls, but her makeup was smudged, rushed. Her black clothes made her swarthy skin seem pallid, pale, her eyes even darker and lost.

Before the audience, the conductor began to speak. His voice rang out too loud in the crowded room, so that the front row flinched slightly, eyes averted away from his carrying words. He gestured widely as he spoke, his hands flying at the ends of slender wrists, and leaned forward slightly, as though eager to hear the audience’s response.

Behind him, the woman shifted her weight slightly. As she moved, her dark hair slid across her face in a dark curtain. Light from the window caught the dark locks as she moved, and painted them gold, bronze, earth red. The eyes of the audience were drawn to her as she moved, and she turned away slightly, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of so many.

Before her, the conductor began to speak more passionately. She blushed slightly and looked up at him. Her eyes, hidden amongst layers of shadowed kohl and mascara, were dark, fiery. She gazed at his back as though she could silence him, but he talked on regardless. She shifted her weight again slightly, her bare feet light against the rough boards of the darkened stage. Her legs above them were bare, the skin pale and vulnerable.

As the conductor began to wind up his speech, she seemed to shrink into herself. Her hands clasped the sheets of music she held across her chest, a barrier between her and the audience. She turned her face away slightly, and let her hair cover her soft cheekbones. Her eyes were lowered, almost closed, her lips bitten red raw. Her shoulders lumped slightly, and the delicate strap of her dress lid off one side and hung across the top of her arm.

From the back of the room, I watched her reach up and gently slide the strap back into place. Her fingers gently brushed the bare skin of her shoulder as she moved. Her touch was slow, lethargic. Around me, I felt the eyes of the audience on her as she moved.

The conductor finished his speech with a final flourish. There was a pause, and then the audience began to applaud, slowly, cautiously. He bowed slightly, smiling with self importance, and began to back from the stage.

The woman watched him leave. Slowly, gradually, she turned to face the audience. Her bare feet brushed the boards as she took a step forward.

There was silence. The audience sat forward, expectant, eager.

Slowly her head came up. Her eyes were closed, her dark lashes brushing her cheek. The audience waited.

Suddenly her eyes opened and her gaze met mine. Her eyes were dark and sad, coloured with regret and fear. For a moment, the room was lost to me as we remained, locked in each others gaze.