Met a girl, said she could dance
We rehearsed, she had her chance
She was fast, did pretty well
Then it went straight to hell
Do a step, tap, I won't trip
It’s her fault that I’m losing my grip!
She was lyin’ right from the start
She just wanted to break my heart
I fuckin’ hate her
Gods, I fuckin’ hate her
Fa-la-la, fake
Does she think it’s funny to distort my image like a trick mirror
And make me a joke?

He seemed fun, good at first glance
Then we finished our first dance
He trashed everything I am
He doesn’t care
He’s no real man, no
Do a step, tap, I won't trip
It’s his fault that I’m losing my grip!
He was lyin’ right from the start
He just wanted to break my heart
I fuckin' hate him
Gods, I fuckin' hate him
Fa-la-la, fake
Does he think it’s funny to distort my image like a trick mirror
And make me a joke?

That's our trouble, as you see
She has her reasons, and so does he
We’ve decided, and we’re glad
Our differences are all we have
I fuckin’ hate you
Gods, I fuckin’ hate you
Fa-la-la, fake
You must think it’s funny to distort my image like a trick mirror
And make me a joke!
La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, liar, fake
La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, liar, fake
La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, liar, fake
You distort my image like a trick mirror
I fuckin’ hate you

Ann, Cerise and Calliope watched contemplatively as two crossdressing performers in the tackiest faux-Iroquoise costumes imaginable brought “Wig-Wam Bam” by Sweet to a lip-synced crescendo.

Seraphine ended up in a possessive embrace with Johan. She aimed her pistol in the air one-handed and fired the “Bam” flag, showering them both in glitter. They bowed, waved to the audience, and departed towards the hidden staircase at a run, holding hands. Johan’s braided dark wig bounced like a set of reins attached to an extremely camp, innocently racist horse.

“See, Calliope? It really doesn’t make any sense with ‘Bang,’” Cerise said. “They must sing it about a hundred times. It is clearly ‘Bam.’ An Iroquoi does not sleep in a wing-wang.” She took a sip of her weak Mimosa and all three of them swivelled back around to face the bar. The live band had started an instrumental for dancing, and they didn’t need watching.

“I think it’s supposed to be log cabins,” Ann said. “‘President Abraham Whatever-Thing of Bear Clan was born in a log cabin he built himself.’ Or something.”

“Apartments,” Cerise said. “Tenement apartments, they don’t even have doss houses. ‘Public housing’ they call it. And the filthy Elbans sleep in ‘flats.’ Objectively the worst shoe. No offence, Calliope, dear.”

“They make it look like they just ‘Bang’ed,” Calliope said.

“It’s the song,” Ann replied. She shrugged. “I suppose ‘Bang’ is just too on-the-nose.”

“We are not a fucking cabaret,” Cerise said.

“We are not a cabaret!” the three bartenders agreed in unison. A few waiters in the dining area answered likewise. They were well-trained and they knew you weren’t supposed to say the “fucking” part loud.

Ann had already gone through all three bartenders, who were her “dear friends.” Two of them were male. Calliope thought Rebecca seemed promising, but Becca protested that she didn’t like girls.

Ann had lowered her voice and indicated her name tag, which clarified her identity in cheerful fuschia ink, “Becca, sweetheart, you know I’m not really. Not really.”

Rebecca put down her bottle of Tuathan Cream and looked pained. “Annie, you’re like my sister. I can’t even picture… that. It’s like tits on a moose. No. Worse. It feels rude to picture it. It’s like Harry wanting to date me.”

Ann cringed. She crossed both hands in front of her face like when Milo wished to convey a no, but extra. “He’s married, Becca. We were at the wedding. He’s left pictures of Lalage and Barbara’s grandson on the bulletin board.”

“He’s family,” Becca replied.

It seemed Cerise might have overestimated the percentage of Ann’s friends at the Black Orchid who’d be eager to go to bed with a betitted moose — or, less metaphorically, their adoptive sister who happened to have a penis.

Cerise kept nudging Ann in the direction of the woman with the annoying laugh — they both liked umbrella drinks, it was a match made in heaven — but Ann seemed uncharacteristically shy. It really wasn’t like negotiating sex in the bushes with men for money. She liked girls. It would be different if one of them said no.

Milo would be hurt too. He’d be hurt less, because it wasn’t him, it was Ann, and he knew Ann was perfect. But they shared a body and he might still blame himself for ruining it for her. That was the opposite of what they were trying to teach him.

Cerise had time for another Mimosa, but she had decided the amount of people helping Ann ride her new bicycle were diverting her from actually riding the bicycle. She downed the last of her drink and stood with a smile. “I really must go. That blue idiot and I are going to clear the amateurs off the dance floor in thirty. Maybe I can get him alone for a few minutes and bash his kneecaps in. Then I can dance with Johan!”

Ann spoke against the palm of her hand, but Cerise could still hear it, “The reason they cover Johan in glitter is he isn’t as good.” She sat back and said the next part at normal volume, “And you know that, angel.”

Cerise’s expression twisted. She knocked her head back and scoffed as if consuming a shot of cheap liquor. “You’re just lucky I like you,” she said darkly. She strode away towards the backstage entrance without looking back.

“I don’t know,” Ann muttered. “They really should like each other. They’re like bookends. It offends Milo’s sense of aesthetics. I suppose Lalage and Barbara feel that way too, or they wouldn’t keep making them do it. Maybe it’s economical. We don’t have to choreograph them. You can’t. Maybe it’s like Cin and Em, except you can tell they really do love each other…”

“Excuse me,” Calliope said. “My friend likes to drink sugar too. Do you mind if she buys you another one of those? Her name is Ann. She’s a boy.”

The woman at the end of the bar brayed laughter and slid her glass towards the nearest bartender. “Sure, cherie!”

Calliope spoke to Ann aside white nudging her off the barstool, “It’s not that annoying, she just sounds Southern. I think Cerise is being picky. You can be picky too if you want, but you hafta start somewhere.”

“Um,” Ann said. “Um.” She bowed slightly to the woman at the end of the bar. “I’m dreadfully sorry. I don’t mean to be forward. My friend Calliope is sort of trying to fix me up. I think she thinks I’m being a bit shy.” She smiled.

The woman at the end of the bar regarded her name tag and pointed, “That is adorable. Do you work here?”

“Yes, actually. Just not tonight. We thought it might be a good place for me to find my feet. I don’t really do this.” She laughed and shook her head. “Not that a person shouldn’t. I’m not horribly religious or anything. Not that there’s anything wrong with being horribly religious… Well, obviously sometimes there is… You know what? Can I leave and come in again?”

The woman laughed at her. “No, it’s all right. You’ve been closeted somehow, haven’t you, ma chere?”

Ann sat down on the nearest stool. “Now, you know, I know we’ve decided to call it that, but it’s more fair to say I’ve been suitcased. And every time I think I’ve come out, I find myself emerging from yet another one. It’s like being one of those Prokovian dolls. What are you drinking, dear?”

“Mai Tais, but before you get carried away, are you a real boy?”

“Well, I… I think I’d need a philosophy degree to be sure about that, but I’m as real and boy as I’m able to be. Does that make sense?”

“I don’t know. I’m a real lesbian. Does that make sense to you?”

“Very much, thank you.” Ann took her hand. “I’m happy to buy you a drink and talk about closets anyway. I have to start somewhere!”

They both decided to have Mai Tais. Calliope had another cherry cola, she was supervising.

◈◈◈

Veronique and Ann made an alliance and decided to explore their remaining options together. A given woman had to like one or the other of them, but they wouldn’t break up until they both found someone they liked.

They tried pairing off with the woman who Cerise said had detestable political views and her friend, who seemed to have a compatible orientation for each of them. Predictably, the woman with detestable political views indicated Ann to Veronique and said the words, “sad little misogynist gay boy,” which by that point Veronique was very sure Ann was not.

Between the three of them, Ann, Vero and Calliope managed to convince the two others that they ought to go drink somewhere a little more conservative. Ann gave the one with the stuffed corset some unwanted advice on evenly distributing the padding.

The Three Musketeers sat at the bar again and ordered another round from Becca.

“I love women,” Ann explained to her drink. “It’s obvious.” She removed the cherry and turned to Veronique. “Isn’t it obvious? This isn’t a costume. I’m not making fun of the concept. I’m being sincere! It’s an homage!” Calliope had told her that was what you called art when it was copied off something else. “I am Milo’s Ode to Women, parenthesis, They Are This Awesome, close parenthesis!”

“Woo,” Calliope said.

“Who’s Milo?” Veronique said.

“I… He… I…” She glanced back and forth between the two women. “That is…” Calliope had been after her to stop treating Milo like dirty laundry, but she’d only known Vero for half an hour.

Even if they were already dear friends.

“Ann’s best friend with the fashion sense,” Calliope said. “He’s my boyfriend. He’s straight too. Pretty much. I know he loves me, but the way I dress drives him crazy. You should hear him go on.” She moved her hand as if operating a verbose puppet.

Ann sat back. “Oh, sweetheart, he didn’t mean… He has no filter when he talks to you. That’s all it is.” It was an immutable condition of “talking” to Milo, because he could only communicate in words when the radio was reading minds during magic storms. He must’ve said something stupid.

Ann frowned. No. That’s not true. Stop it, Milo. She obviously doesn’t care.

Calliope shrugged. “He helps pick Ann’s outfits, but it’s way more than that. He’s like a conscience.”

Veronique looked her up and down. “It’s a little frilly. I wouldn’t. But you make it work. If anything’s misogynist it’s the corsets.”

“Oh, you don’t tightlace, do you, Vero?” Ann said. “You don’t have to tightlace. That’s why they make puffed sleeves! You can fasten the back with elastic if you…”

A spotlight hit the centre of the dance floor and the band began an instrumental version of “Cheek to Cheek.”

Veronique waved her hand in Ann’s face. “Wait. Wait. It’s those darling petits colorés again. I want to see!”

She scrambled to the brass rail with her drink in one hand, trying to see through the dancers. The ones who had caught Cerise and Pierre earlier were already clearing the floor and going back to their tables to watch. A few other misguided couples thought it might be fun to dance with them. Most of them would give up and sit down, but in any case they would be too tired to go on after the medley and the show could begin.

The Black Orchid employed a mix of live and canned sound, professional and amateur dancing, entertainment spectacles and audience participation. They tried to change everything up often enough that no one group got too tired or bored. This was a transition from a public dance with live music, to a performance with live music — dancing or perhaps a singer. Then it was back to canned music, with or without performers, so the band could have a break.

The stage was an oval platform sandwiched between two curtains. The one in the back only came up during rehearsals. When closed, the one in front left just enough space for a small act or some other distraction while they changed sets behind it. Now it was drawn aside, showcasing the band.

There were two broad steps wrapped around the stage, a clear space in front of the band, a whole dance floor and the spiral staircase for Cerise and Pierre to play with. They each were assigned their own spotlight because they could not be persuaded to share. Their job was to get the audience to vacate the dance floor, so everyone could watch whoever was up next.

They usually managed it with elegance and style, but they had been known to elbow stubborn couples — while smiling.

“Oh, gods, It’s ‘Irving Berlin,’” Ann muttered.

There was a limited selection of ten-minute medleys for clearing the dance floor, and “Irving Berlin” ended with an incitement to violence. At least it wasn’t “Singin in the Rain;” the last iteration of “Make ‘Em Laugh” she’d witnessed had ended with Pierre going headfirst into a potted plant and a hilarious concussion.

Ann stood up and joined Calliope and Veronique by the rail. “They encourage them, you know,” she said to Calliope. “Lalage and Barbara do. This is encouraging them. Milo and I just want our families to like each other, is that too much to ask?”

“Don’t they like dancing?” Calliope said.

The pink and blue couple in the spotlight on the dance floor were posed cheek-to-cheek — Cerise had to crouch to accomplish this — and grinning like maniacs. Their clothes were shiny; she had a knee-length purple gown and he had a suit with a purple tailcoat. They looked powder-coated. Two perfectly sculpted pop art metal powder-coated people meant to be bolted to the hood of a sports car travelling at speeds of over five-hundred miles per hour. Pierre’s hair was even slicked back.

“They love it,” Ann said. “They’re just having a disagreement about what it means.”

Cerise and Pierre were content to hold hands and dance near each other for the entirety of the “Cheek to Cheek” segment, albeit with tight grips and intense expressions. They swept a wide space for themselves and encouraged many of their competitors to sit down with a tango modified for tap shoes.

Then it was “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.” Pierre thought this was a fine time to demonstrate that he knew ragtime dancing and she didn’t. Cerise thought it was a fine time to pretend he was an awkward idiot who had no idea what he was doing, when he came at her with his arms stiffly spread for a Grizzly Bear and she ducked him and tapped a circle around him.

He grabbed her hand and tried to involve her in a Cakewalk. She would not be constrained to strutting and displaying her dress and began performing kicks which went over his head — and which he could not match. This resulted in the first instance of clapping and cheering, which she accepted with a smile and a nod.

Pierre backed off and gestured at her as if displaying a zoo animal, earning more clapping and a laugh. She snatched down his hand, but before she could snap his arm off at the shoulder, the band played the beginning of the bugle call and cut out, forcing them to rattle out the rest of it in tap.

They had a short conversation in dance, complete with musical inflection, which rapidly devolved into an argument. It was meant to, and they were each allowed one hit — one fake hit that they were supposed to punctuate with the tap shoes.

Pierre took his first, and stamped hard on Cerise’s toes. After a long, tapped tirade, which had a noticeable limp, Cerise swatted him so hard across the face that even the noise of the shoes didn’t cover the smack. She turned up her nose and tapped away up the stairs to the stage.

The notes for the Irving Berlin medley optimistically suggested that Pierre follow her and “make up,” and that the next bit ought to be “good-natured.” Ann had never once seen “Anything You Can Do (I Can Do Better)” performed by Cerise and Pierre in a way that could be called “good-natured.” She suspected that the choreographer, who had arranged the music and then been forced to cede it to two virtuoso dancers who refused to follow direction, was taking his revenge.

Pierre followed Cerise up the stairs and just kept going. There were only three steps maximum if you included the stage. If you wanted to do a real staircase bit, you needed to use the lower part of the spiral one. Well, no, you didn’t need to do that if you were Pierre. He stepped up onto thin air and continued to tap.

He’d gone up about three feet before the audience figured out there wasn’t a clever prop involved. They exploded in cheers and applause.

Cerise had concealed glitter somewhere on her person. She threw it sarcastically in his direction and made a mystic pass with her hands. He kicked over her head, which was now much easier for him to do, completed his staircase bit and then threw it to her — without bothering to come down.

Cerise had three stairs total to do it “better,” or at least as well, and was competing for attention with a man literally dancing in the air. Unless she wanted to do magic too.

Cerise paused to let the audience in on her irritation. “Are you kidding me?” she said, hand on hip.

“I’m completely serious!” he replied. He performed a backflip in midair, ending with a drumroll and a cymbal crash. He leaned down and offered her a hand up.

“I’m a real dancer!” she said. She beamed at the audience and rapidly tapped out the beat with her shoes: An-y-thing-you-can-do-I-can-do-bet-ter!

She turned and stole a chair from the trombone player (he blared a startled “wa-wow!”), setting it at the edge of the stage. She copied Pierre’s step, leapt onto the chair and then tipped it and followed it down, before kicking it upright and jumping onto it again. She danced with it, making the metal legs rattle in time. Yes-She-Can-Yes-She-Can-Yes-She-Can!

She’d improvised a fourth stair and a partner, which Pierre could not do in the air. The band joined back in with the resultant applause. When she threw it to him, she did not step down from the chair and he had to dance down to the stage and steal another for himself.

As the band wound up the number with plenty of slow grandeur for them to simultaneously insist that yes they could (“act tired, make it messy” the notes advised them, as if they wouldn’t be tired and messy), they had begun shoving each other out of the way and pulling each other’s clothes and hair.

Pierre at last removed Cerise’s wig entirely, and she kicked his legs out from under him and sent him thudding to the stage on his tailbone. She bowed deeply, whipped her hair out of his hand, and ran down the stairs, smiling and waving, as the band reprised “Cheek to Cheek.” Pierre limped after her, playing up his injury and rubbing his backside.

They disappeared behind the potted plants to thunderous applause. Before the next act (a woman in a shabby men’s suit and bowler hat) could mount the stage, a scream emanated from the direction of the kitchen: “A Cakewalk, you racist son of a…?” It was cut off suddenly by the door, timed just right to censor the word.

There was more applause, and not a little bit of laughter.

“Oh, we have fun here, don’t we?” said the woman in the bowler hat. She tipped it towards the audience. “I’m Bert! Have you heard of me?”

The audience cheered in recognition.

“I’m not really Bert,” the woman replied with a grin. She rolled her bowler hat up one arm and down the other, catching it in her opposite hand. “I’m Kat! I couldn’t find Burlington if I had a map!”

Ann stepped back from the brass railing with a frown as Katrina began her modified version of “Burlington Bertie.”

“Oh, I think I’d better just check on them…”

Calliope caught her by the hand and pulled her back. “Ann, you’re not working tonight. If you’re worried, I’ll check. Are you okay with just Vero for a little?”

“It might be more than a little,” Ann said. But she made a smile and nodded firmly. “I’ll be all right, Calliope. But if they’re not all right, please come get me and let me help, okay?”

Calliope smiled at her and signed OK, thinking: If I have to put them in a taxi and send them to the hospital, I don’t think I’ll mention it. I don’t think Ann needs to know. She edged her way towards the kitchen, avoiding the dance floor and the tables.

◈◈◈

She went around, so only the kitchen people would hear them. You could already hear them in the kitchen. She peeked through the window in the door and carefully nudged her way backstage.

“I learned how to Cakewalk at the Cotton Club!”

They had both politely squished themselves off to the side, consummate professionals who did not wish to get in the way of the rest of the performance. Pierre was standing at the rightmost edge of the bottom stair for the height advantage. He was almost level with Cerise in heels that way.

“Is that supposed to mean something?” the pink woman disdained. “Are they uptown?”

Pierre laughed in her face. “My gods, you are provincial.”

Cerise stamped her tap shoe. It sounded like a rifle blast. “I have gone back and forth across this entire continent!”

“Oh, yes, how are the train stations in Piastana, Charles?”

“Less backward than you are, Patricia!”

Calliope stood on her toes and waved both hands for attention. “Hey. Hey, you two, let’s not call each other names, okay?”

Pierre did a treble take. Calliope, Cerise, Calliope, back to Cerise, “Is it a Swan?” and back to Calliope. He smiled at her and came down the stair. “Honey, are you okay? You’re not supposed to come inside. Is something wrong?”

Cerise swatted him on the back of the head. “It’s Calliope, you dolt. Haven’t you met Calliope? She’s Ann’s friend.”

Pierre walked a quick circuit around Calliope. “Ann let you come to the club dressed like this? Are you auditioning…?” That was as far as he got. Cerise yanked his tailcoat up in the back and pulled it over his entire head.

“Calliope dresses like a minimalist Marlene Dietrich, she is adorable, and even if she wasn’t, you should love her!” Cerise spat. “Nobody wants to hear your goddamn jokes, you are not funny!”

Pierre fell backwards, clawing at his head.

“Dear, is Annie all right?” Cerise asked sweetly. “Did she find someone? Are you bored? I have magazines!”

Pierre’s head had appeared beside her shoulder, gasping.

She put her whole hand over his face and shoved him backwards without looking. “How about a novel? You’re not having emotions about it or anything, are you? I have time to eat chocolates and cry, but I’m sure Milo still loves you very… Augh!”

Pierre had kicked her legs out from under her. One of her tap shoes flew off.

Calliope caught it. She missed what happened next, but somehow both of them ended up in a heap on the floor.

Calliope leaned over them, holding Cerise’s shoe. “I’m sorry, you guys think I look like a kid? I haven’t seen a fight like this since nursery school, and we used to punch each other on accident all the time. Use your words. Why are you so pissed off you put on a great show?”

“I am not ‘guys,’ Calliope,” Cerise said meekly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. People. What are you people doing?”

“Charlie doesn’t approve of the Cakewalk,” Pierre said in a sing-song voice. “Charlie is ignorant.”

“Who the hell is Charlie?” Calliope said. “Is he Patricia’s friend? I’m back here because Ann heard her friends Cerise and Pierre screaming at each other and she’s worried about them.”

Pierre sat up with a smile. “Oh, is Annie here? I should say hi.”

“No you shouldn’t, she is trying to pick up a girl, you will not help,” Cerise said. She regarded Calliope pathetically. “She heard us? She didn’t really hear us. You’re teasing me, Calliope, aren’t you?”

“The door was open,” said a figure of indeterminate gender with precisely one half of a moustache. They were heading up the stairs clutching a makeup box and a glittery costume. “Thank you for adopting the children, miss,” they said to Calliope. “We’ve all given up trying to discipline them. Do you think you might take them outside and let them run around?”

“I think that’s a very good idea,” Calliope said. She gave Cerise back her shoe, and offered Pierre a hand up. “Hey, Pierre, do you happen to have a middle and a last name? I’m just trying to level the playing field. I can make ‘em up if you need…”

◈◈◈

The three kids sitting by the back door heard voices approaching. One stood up and the other two, who were eating, scooted away.

“…I don’t see how you expect an audience full of Marselline people in Marsellia to put together that much Iroquoise history off the top of their heads. I’ve seen the posters. A bunch of white people painting themselves pitch black like when they pretend they’re us. It just looks racist! Ooh.” Cerise clutched her shoulders and shivered. It was cold and foggy. All the lights looked like foxfires. She was still wearing her costume. So was Pierre.

But she and Pierre had nice warm beds to crawl into, and these kids probably didn’t. She’d been like that once. She put on a brave smile. “Hello… Felix, right? Like the PM.” The one with the green hair. He’d been there when she got in and she had a feeling he’d put himself in charge of the situation for tonight. Or maybe he just didn’t want to go home. “Are these your friends?”

He shrugged and then nodded. One of them had short electric-blue hair, glasses and a dress. The other had a tartan skirt and a mismatched men’s jacket with dark stains. That one rubbed a smudged nose on an equally smudged sleeve and smiled back at her.

“I don’t care about the audience, we are talking about your stupid…” Pierre crashed into her and paused.

“Shh, not in front of the Swans,” Cerise said. She smiled all the brighter.

Pierre smiled too. “Hi, kids. What are our genders tonight?”

They all looked mystified. “Gay?” Felix offered.

“Ah. That’s very nice, but I’m thinking a little more basic.” Pierre pointed at him. “Boy? He/him?”

He nodded.

Pierre grinned. “Excellent. You?”

The one in the tartan skirt. “Girl.”

“Lovely. What about you?”

The one with the blue hair and the dress froze for a moment and then shrugged.

Cerise swept in before Pierre could get his mouth open, “That’s fine. You don’t have to say. You don’t have to know. You don’t have to have one in the first place.”

“You’ll work it out eventually!” Pierre said.

“Shut your mouth, they might be like Question,” Cerise hissed.

“What? Desperate for attention?”

“Q is not… are not?” She frowned. “They are not trying to get attention. They want to be ‘Q’ now because they’re sick of people trying to answer them. They just want a little space. It’s everyone else treating them like they’ve got a sign on their back that says ‘Recruit Me.’ …‘They’ Question, not ‘they’ everyone else. Q has a sign. Except they don’t. Doesn’t?”

She growled and clutched both hands in her short white hair. “I understand why people get irritated with Question, I do. But it’s not Q’s fault, it’s the language. The language isn’t a person with feelings, we can rip it up all we want. If Q wants to be ‘they’ right now or for the rest of their life, that’s fine.”

“‘They,’” said the kid with the blue hair. They shrugged again. “Huh. I don’t hate it.”

But Cerise had already refocused on Pierre and she wasn’t being very supportive, “What is it with you? Why do you go out of your way to hurt people? Were you like this before you asked the gods to rearrange you like a cheap slider puzzle? Are you a victim? Should I feel sorry for you?”

“I feel sorry for you,” he said. “You say you’ve known who you are for over a decade and you still can’t commit. We are magical people, Cerise — or whoever you are. You act like being a fake person somehow makes you better than me and I’m sick of it. Haven’t you had enough of being who other people want you to be? You won’t even dance.”

“You don’t dance!” she snarled, pointing. “You, you, you walking stereotype! People take one look at your cheap parlour tricks and they think that’s what I’m doing too. I do the work! I’ve done a lifetime of hard work! You… You take one correspondence course — or however you think you learned how to dance — and you load yourself up with magic and you think you can dance with me? You sicken me!”

“You don’t know if you’re a girl pretending to be a boy or a boy pretending to be a girl,” he replied. “You go back and forth so much you can’t know. People see you hitting on girls at the bar with your fake dick in your back pocket just in case and they think I’m like that — they think all of us are like that! Just pretending whatever’s the most convenient! And you…”

Cerise lowered her voice. She really lowered it. It was the voice that went with the short hair and the overalls for her landscaping job. “Which one of us has a fake dick, Trish? I’m confused.”

“I paid for this! I paid for all of this! It’s mine!” Pierre cried.

Calliope slid in between them and pushed them apart before Pierre could get his trousers undone. “Okay,” she said mildly. “I think it’s time we all admit this is not about the Cakewalk. Then we can move on from there.”

◈◈◈

“…Calliope told Milo. I don’t listen. I should listen. Calliope loves art. Anyway, I think Cerise is like that person who did the really big church in Roma. With all the angels and the naked people who look really alive. Pierre is like the one doing the huge canvases of paint drips. They’re both trying to make something beautiful, but it’s not even the same kind of thing. It’s the paint, they’re both using paint. Neither one of them understands it’s not meant as an insult. So it’s not an act, Vero. I know that. I know them.”

Veronique absently stirred her drink with the included umbrella. “It’s kind of tragic. Why don’t they talk to each other?”

“I don’t know.”

They sat quietly for a time. The bar area was packed, several couples had finished dinner and decided to have drinks and watch Katrina do her music hall routine, but most of them were sitting at the little tables nearest the brass rail.

At the bar itself, it was only Ann and Vero, a man drinking grasshoppers and talking to Justin, two gentlemen who were waiting for a table, and a couple who appeared to be sizing each other up for an exchange of addresses. The female half of the latter reached for her drink with her left hand and her left eye — only the left one — flicked briefly in that direction before righting itself. Ann might’ve been the only one who noticed.

She stood up. “Oh! I know how to fix that! It’s a Descoteaux Mark 6, isn’t it? It pulls left because you’re left-handed and your prosthetic is on the same side. They patched the spell for right-handed people, but they didn’t patch it for lefties until the Mark 8. The Mark 7… Oh, my gods, I’ve just told the whole bar you have a glass eye.”

She put both hands over her mouth, staggered and sat down. “I am so sorry. You don’t have a glass eye. It’s undetectable. I am so sorry. I’m a crazy person. I have no idea what I’m talking about. I’ll go.” She stood up again. “I’m going to go kill myself. I am so incredibly sorry…”

The woman with the undetectable glass eye looked Ann up and down. She read the name tag. She turned and regarded the man who had bought her the drink. She smiled at him, “Okay, I’m sorry. This,” she gestured at Ann, “is way more interesting than whatever you’ve got going on. Do you want your drink back? No? Okay, thanks.” She finished it at a swallow and turned back to the man in the dress. “What are you drinking, ‘Ann’?”

“Mai Tais, but I think I’m going to switch to cherry colas. I am really incredibly sorry. Please don’t buy me a drink. I don’t deserve one.”

“Then you’re going to have to buy me one, because I have been trying to hack this damn eyeball for two years,” the woman said. “Excuse me, Rebecca? May I have another gin fizz and a cherry cola? The gentleman is buying.”

“Annie is a lady,” the bartender said, though she did start making the drinks. “She is a complicated male lady, but she is definitely a lady. Don’t be rude.”

“I’m sorry, Ann.” The woman bowed to her. “Now we both owe each other a drink. My name is Lola.”

“You’re kidding,” Ann said, wide-eyed. “L-O-L-A? Oh my gods, no. I didn’t mean to imply… Not that there’s anything wrong… As long as you’re a girl on the inside… I don’t care if you’re a girl on the inside, you can have whatever gender you want, I will still buy you a drink, you are gorgeous, who does your hair!”

Now the whole bar was staring at her. Katrina even faltered for a moment on stage.

Lola laughed. “I’m named after the other one. The insane showgirl with the feathers.” She patted her blonde coiffure, which was featherless at the moment. “My mother likes Barry Manilow. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have another Mai Tai? You seem a little stressed out.”

Veronique gave Ann a nudge. “You know, I’d say your game needs a lot of work, but it seems to be working for you.”

Lola popped out her eye and put it on the cocktail napkin next to the cherry cola. “So what’s wrong with it?”