Chapter 3
I sat in the front row, ready to be entertained. Right now there was some low class hoochie in a cowboy hat dancing, her lipstick smeared across her gaping mouth, her soggy old breasts hanging limp on her chest. The beat changed, and the next performer appeared. And suddenly I realised why Howl always came home so tired, why his clothes were thrown on messily and hanging off his manly man shoulders, I knew where the black door led. Howl spun slowly around the pole, bright blue tassels hanging from his nipples, blowing kisses to all the lonely old men in the crowd. His stilettos sparkled in the spotlight, his eyelids were painted shocking blue, his lips deep ruby red. His dance was so full of emotion, of longing, of a young boy's angst. Tears fell down his soft cheeks, I wanted to lick them off, and so did all the other men in the crowd by the looks of it. I sipped my drink, the liquor stinging my delicate throat. He was beautiful, a blue butterfly floating, spinning, twirling in such a extremely provocative manner. And I was just Sophie, a dull, dusty old toe rag addicted to crack and smutty romance novels, longing for her true love that she can never have. I took a drag of my cigarette to conceal the tears flowing from my eyes. Suddenly Howl looked out into the crowd, his eyes landed on mine, and I knew things could never be the same. "Sophie!" he cried out. I stood up, gave him one last look, a single warm tear fell down my cheek. He looked hurt, horrified, stunned, appalled. Good. I had broken my beautiful butterfly. I turned and ran.