My merlot is set on the table the moment I sit down and I nod in gratitude for the service. I need not do anything. Frank owns The Fontaine after all, and though I loathe coming here, there are some perks to being Frank Semper's wife - wine at the ready is one of them.

I listen to the faint horns as a gentleman comes to light my cigarette and quietly ponder how long I'll have to stay. Frank says it's good for the business - that people like to see a fine, church-going woman out on the town enjoying herself. In reality, he just wants me to cosign on his debaucherous club that's been serving 80 proof liquor since well before Prohibition ended.

My father would disown me were he still living, but pehaps I wouldn't be in this dim and smoky club had his breath not stopped 10 years ago. My mother wasn't sure how she'd manage with all five of us children, when lo and behold, Frank Semper, a known businessman about town, showed up at our door step to ask about me. My mother was appropriately affronted at first, after all, I was just 15, and Frank, though successful, had been rumored to run with a certain crowd, but conversations held in back rooms slowly lessened her concern and soon I was dressed all in white, a child bride at only 16.

Turns out Frank had been watching me for a while. The way he tells it, you'd think eye-ballin a 13 year old while she plays hop scotch were a romantic thing. It was to him I suppose. He said he could always tell how beautiful I would become and that he knew that if he didn't swoop in to 'save' me upon my father's demise that someone else would.

I never felt saved.

The only thing that kept me from running away those first few years was seeing the shine on my little brothers' shoes, the pretty lavender dresses my sisters wore to church on Sunday, the hardwood of the floors at the school I insisted they be transferred to on Frank's dime.

And he obliged me. Everywhere we went he got compliments on his 'gorgeous, young' wife, on what a fine couple we made. I could see it in their eyes sometimes, the women, they knew it was wrong, but their husbands would nudge them and right as rain, a flattering comment would be thrown Frank's way about his pretty wife.

After a while, I settled into my role. I saw my siblings graduate, every one, and the boys went off to college. My sisters weren't as fortunate, but at least they could choose their husbands and I was mightly pleased when eyes that had so often grazed over me lecherously, looked away disappointed when trying to speak to my sisters. I taught them that, even as I couldn't set the example myself.

I stumble out of my thoughts as Frank and his best friend, James, push into the booth beside me. The pungent odor of Scotch wafts off of their skin and I turn into the furl of smoke twisting off my cigarette. It does me little good when Frank leans in to plant a sloppy kiss on my cheek.

James tips his hat my way. "Quinn, you look beautiful as ever."

"Thank you, James." I barely glance his way, trying to contain my irritation. "Frank, how much longer do I have to sit here? I'd like to get home to rest for the church festival tomorrow."

"Don't get your panties in a bunch, Quinnie! I've got a new performer I want you to see." He plants another wet kiss on my cheek and scoots to sit closer, while I near the edge of the booth.

I scoff. "Please tell me it's not another magician. That last fella had to be rushed to the emergency room."

"A singer this time and I think she's going to make this place a lot of money." Frank is rarely this excited, so a strange curiosity strikes me.

"Well, when's she going to be on?"

"Not fifteen minutes, sweetheart. You even have time to powder your nose."

It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes at Frank's annoying code-speak for 'leave the table', but I get up nonetheless and pass Frank's disgusting associate, Timmy Slim, named ironically for his girth. I'm just happy not to be squeezed in between the two of them.

Making my way to the lavatory, I'm reminded of just how ornate this place really is. Gold chandeliers hang above the table settings. The booths sit a level up for the high rollers and there's even a balcony for those here just to see the show. Gloved hands reach out to assist me up the stairs as I reach the side hall where the smaller, less popular Ladies room is nestled.

I have no need to use the toilet and breaking free from this dress just to pass the time seems silly, so I seat myself in the powder room and take out a pocket mirror to check that my hair is in place.

Just as I'm noticing a scrape along my neck, probably from Frank's 'affections', a woman comes racing in and up to the mirror. A black woman. Or is she black? I'm not sure, but either way, she's distractingly good looking.

She tosses her small leather bag down and opens it quickly, pulling out make up and hair brushes and placing them to the left and to the right. I'm a little taken aback to be honest. If she weren't so stunning I would have said something immediately, but because my eyes have lingered on her in the vanity, I miss my opportunity to slow her unpacking. She's finished emptying it out by the time I find my voice.

"Miss, I don't think this is where you're supposed to be." It bothers me to say it, but I can't bear the thought of someone else finding her here and saying so much worse.

She continues with her ministrations, barely shifting her eyes to see me in the mirror's reflection. She smooths a dark red onto her lips. It's a beautiful shade.

"Ain't that the truth! I'm supposed to be in Chicago on the Chitlin Circuit, but these fools insisted we stop at a few places down South. What town is this anyway?"

I'm thrown by her misinterpretation, but something in the way she speeds up her movements as she talks makes me think she misinterpreted nothing. "Bartlett. Bartlett, Tennessee. Pardon, but I think you misunderst-"

"Tennessee! Well, at least that means we're headed North. I need to stop sleeping through these road trips." She races to the opening of the stalls and quickly squats to check for feet. I assume she finds none because her next move is to the door, which she shuts and locks it.

I clutch my purse to my side and stand. She smirks at me for it.

"I hope you don't mind, but we've got all the same parts, right?" And without further preamble, she slinks out of the frock she was wearing and unsnaps the side of her bag to pull out a shimmery gold dress - if you can call it that. It's shorter than any I've seen and as she throws it on, I notice it barely grazes her mid-thigh.

She looks like a showgirl from one of those Paris postcards the men pass around. My thoughts must bleed through to my facial expression because she winks.

"Gotta push the limits these days! Crowds can get rowdy without something to focus on."

I unconsciously stretch the hem of my dress further past my knees in silence.

"Bet you'd look grand in a thing like this." She's back to her make up, leaning in close to apply her eyeliner.

"I...I'd never consider it." It's as though my father has possessed me. "It isn't proper."

"Proper or not, you'd look grand." She stops and looks back at me as though to confirm her opinion, and with a glance up and down, she nods. "No harm in trying something new, time to time."

Bang. Bang. Bang.

"Santana! Santana, get your bony ass out here, now. We're supposed to be on!"

She smiles at me, like her lateness is a shared secret between us and then she's shoving all her things back into the bag as quickly as she can.

I begin to help her for some reason. I hadn't noticed I was even moving towards her, but that smile, it was so magnetic. I grab her frock from the floor and stuff it into the side pouch and she snaps it shut, before leaning into me and kissing my cheek.

"You're a gem! Hope you like the show!"

With that she unlocks the door and races out and I find my hand tracing my cheek where her lips just were as I stare at my reflection. I only have a moment before the announcer's voice can be heard booming through the club.

"AND NOW COMING TO THE STAGE, ISIS OF THE NILE!"

I find myself scurrying back to our booth. Slim is packed into my seat still, his gut halved by the tabletop, so I slide in beside James. I turn my back to him almost immediately to fully face the stage, which remains dark.

The piano begins to play and a single spotlight shines down making all the sparkles on her dress come to life simultaneously. It would seem she has no need to even sing, the way the eyes in the room all fall upon her in rapt attention, but when she does, the air becomes thick and heady. Her voice contradicts her slight stature. Her smooth skin. It's raspy and strong.

I can't imagine looking away. She works the room, leaving the stage to slowly approach each table as she croons. The men are dazzled and the women, charmed – somehow she makes it clear that she is just performing, that she has no interest in their husbands or beaus, while still making them feel special for a moment. She ends the song with a hand on the naked shoulder of a woman, solidifying that point.

The band falters for a second, not automatically moving on to the next song and she turns to them, signalling with a twist of her wrist. Her pianist shakes his head at the bassist and they both chuckle to themselves, starting up the next song as she begins to mount the steps to the booth landing.

I slowly recognize the song as 'Sophisticated Lady' and she glides from booth to booth, pausing to sing a line or two to the inhabitants. She addresses the abandoned floor for a moment, although they seemed absolutely content with her backside, some too content.

She finally makes her way to our table and it almost makes me gag to see her run a perfectly manicured finger along, Timmy Slim's fat chin. She smiles with a wink for Frank and he beams with pride in a way I've seen only once before – waiting for me beside a priest at the alter.

He looks at her like she is his.

James elbows him approvingly. For some reason I can't bear to see it and I look back towards the stage to focus on the saxophone solo, but my view is quickly eclipsed by gold and I look up to see her nudging me to scoot over. James has already made the space having never looked away. She slinks in beside me with ease, as my body becomes opposingly rigid. She leans forward into my space to grab James' highball and take a healthy sip. The crowd laughs and I realize it must be a part of her routine, having no time to comprehend anything but the nearness of her.

She leans back over me to return the bourbon, this time bringing our faces inches apart. Her dark eyes look me over in those split seconds, as liquored breath pillows against my lips, sweet and buttery. She curls a lock of my hair behind my ear. Slowly. Like the solo isn't almost over, like she has all the time in the world.

She doesn't though, and I feel a hand press into my thigh instead of the leather of the seat as she scoots out of the booth with a grace that belies her speed, slipping back into the song right on time.

The show goes uptempo for a while and slows down, then uptempo again, but throughout, eyes remain fixed on wherever she has placed herself about the room. When she finally curtesies, with a hint of sarcasm, the people stand and clap uproariously. She curtesies once more and then steps back into the shadows behind the curtain.

Tables talk animatedly and raise glasses as the house band strikes up some ambient music. Several gentleman sweep by our table to tip their hats at Frank on their way out and it occurs to me that my earlier assessment of Frank's look may not have been incorrect.

Eventually, their adoration isn't enough, he needs mine. "What did you think, Quinnie?!"

I prefer not to give him the satisfaction. "I think I'm well past the age for you to call me Quinnie." I shrug into my next sip of wine. "I liked the band."

"The band?! Those fellas are a dime a dozen. The girl? What did you think about the girl?!"

"What does it matter, Frank? Seems like the crowd was pleased enough with her."

"They were amazed! Slim says they sold out of champagne! I'm signing a contract with that girl's manager tonight! She's going to be my headlining act! We'll have to change the name of course, but none of that matters."

"What makes you think she'd want to perform in rinky dink, Bartlett for more than a night?"

I know I shouldn't have said it, but something about...Santana -that was her name- something about Santana being stuck here was unbearable. The way he looked at her.

His voice takes on an edge I'm familiar with.

"It doesn't matter what she wants, Quinn. It matters what I want and I want her here. Isn't it time you said hello to the ladies in the powder room?"

I down the last of my merlot and stand up abruptly.

Slim speaks above the din. "You're still my favorite girl, Quinn. Niggers are just for looking."

Frank punches him playfully. "Quinn's just for looking too, ya punk!" James seems uncomfortable and winces at me sympathetically.

I reach down and grab my gloves and purse and raise a finger to signal them to grab my coat.

"I think I've made a long enough appearance for tonight."

"Put your things down, Quinn. You'll leave when I'm ready." He motions my coat away and I know it's because I've ruined his fun, told him not to call me Quinnie. I stare him down, but it only takes a few seconds before I'm dropping my gloves back into the booth.

Frank's one of those men who for all public appearances seems to adore me, but when we're just with his friends or worse, alone, it's very clear that I'm just something else that he owns and if I can't make it to church or a few events due to a 'fever' then so be it, as long as I remember who is in control. Bruises heal. Cuts close. My brothers go to the best universities in the US.

I will have some satisfaction though. I set my glare on Timmy.

"My sister wanted me to tell you her boyfriend loved the chocolates you sent, Slim."

Timmy coughs on his drink. Frank and James laugh and point as he wipes away his spittle. I turn and walk towards the bathroom once more, fuming.

I grab at the door, but it's locked and I can guess why.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

"I said I'd be just another minute, Tom! Jesus! You got a girl back at the motel or sumthin?!"

"It's not Tom."

After a moment, the metal clicks and the door opens. She lets me in but quickly locks the door behind us, before returning to the mirror and wiping at some of her thicker make up. She's still in the gold dress and I only have a moment to wonder why that makes my heart jump before she turns to me with a now familiar grin.

"So, that's your fella? Turned into the green-eyed monster for a second there! Didn't mean to make you jealous." She's teasing, but the idea that I would ever be jealous regarding Frank is beyond laughable – it's offensive.

"Jealous?! I don't know what ever you mean."

"Oh, come on! No one watches Fepper."

I quirk a brow, confused.

"Jonathan Fepper, the saxophonist, I would have thought you had collected his name, the way you ignored me to take in his pathetic ad libbing. Pretty lady like you, he wouldn't know what to do with himself if you smiled his way." Santana chuckles to herself, but I can't get past the idea that she thought I was jealous.

"I was simply trying to keep my dinner down."

"And what's that supposed to mean?! Hey, look, maybe you took that the wrong way earlier. I ain't got any kind of interest in your man. Quite the opposite in that matter of concern."

"No, you took it the wrong way." My need to deny him is so strong that I can't control my mouth. "I may be married to Frank, but that is surely not by choice."

In all my years of being trapped with him I've never uttered such words outside of our home and never once without a resounding slap to follow.

The ladies at church, they know how to shut down an outburst like that before you even think to form it – complimenting a man for leading his flock, reemphasizing the obedience of the wife at all times, letting the silence stretch after he makes a scene instead of comforting you. They'll tell you their ages-old secret recipe for pie crust, but it is clear they expect you to clean all the stains of your dirty laundry alone, even the bloody ones.

Santana is surprised, but not overly so.

"And here I was singing Sophisticated Lady to you. I had no idea it could ring so true."

Unlike her, I find this whole interaction startling. "You sang that to me?"

"Well, to who else? A lady, fine as yourself, doesn't spend time alone in the powder room less she ain't got no reason to return to her seat." She laughs to herself. "My band almost abandoned me for continuing to look for you well past when I was supposed to be back on stage. Pardon me then, that I did take some offense to you staring at Fepper with me right beside you."

I try to find my bearings, try to reign in this comfort she fosters. "Well that was very presumptuous of you."

"If not accurate." Again, she seems to brush off my brittle behavior. "So, tell me, how's a girl like you get married to...what's his name, Frank? - if not by choice?"

I hear a group of ladies try the door a few times and complain to each other before leaving. It reminds me of the outside world on a number of fronts.

"That's none of your business. I've shared too much as it is and you don't belong in this bathroom."

Santana tosses her smeared face cloth into the trash hastily, but doesn't lose her jovial tone. "You white people are all the same. It's fine to have me sing to you for hours, but dare I share a vanity and suddenly I'm gonna snatch your purse!" She fakes a move as if to grab it and I flinch. Her grin widens and then fades away altogether, replaced with dissapointment. "If it's all the same to you, I just need a place to change back dresses. The mop closet they offered me is flooded and I won't change amongst the men."

She sounds so weary and guilt presses into my lungs for stooping so low.

"I didn't...I didn't mean that. It's just, people around here, they..."

Just then there is a faint knock and both our eyes dart to the door.

I walk over and unclasp the lock, barely opening it far enough to see out and am met with a familiar face. Walter, the floor manager.

"Oh, it's you, Mrs. Semper. Some ladies asked that we unlock the bathroom."

"Walter, I'm in the middle of something with a girlfriend here and we'd like to keep the space locked. Would you mind putting up a sign to direct them to the other lavatories?"

"Yes, mam. Not a problem, mam."

I close the door and put the lock back in place.

"Thank you." Santana chews her lip, but won't look at me. "There's no need for the sign though. My manager will be around soon enough. He was harrassing me just before you arrived."

"I gathered that." I wait for her eyes to reach mine. "He likely won't be by for a while though. My husband was so enchanted by your performance that he'd like to sign you to a long-term contract tonight."

Santana's eyes take on a fiery intensity.

"What?! I mean no offense to your husband, though it seems you wouldn't take any, but I'm on my way to Chicago. I can't stay in...where are we again?"

"Bartlett, Tennessee."

"I can't stay here." She sits on the upholstered bench and runs her hands through her hair in aggravation, loosening the waves.

I sit beside her cautiously. "Don't you have any say?"

"Where I sing is akin to where you sleep, Mrs. Semper."

"Quinn."

She glances at me now and self-consciously wipes at the last streaks of her mascara.

"Santana"

We sit in silence for awhile, before the banging starts again.

"Santana! Hurry on up, now! I got good news for the whole band!"

She takes a deep breath beside me, exhaling as she stands and slinks out of her gold dress. I watch her walk. I stare at the skin she's revealed.

Something about our shared lack of control has made this evening more intimate than it should be between two strangers in a powder room.

She places the last of her things into the bag, then turns back my way to retrieve her dress. I pick it up from the floor to save her the bending and raise it between us, holding onto it for a second longer when she tries to take it.

"I'm very sorry you won't be going to Chicago."

She meets my eyes and I can see that she believes what I have said. "I'm sorry your marriage isn't what a girl dreams."

I release the dress and she shakes her head at our circumstances before walking to the door and unlatching the lock. Just before she opens it, I feel compelled to correct one inaccuracy.

"I'm no sophisticated lady, Santana. That would require love lost and I've never found it."

She glances back at me sadly. "I guess I'll have to sing you another song then."

She's out the door and I'm left alone.