Exotic

~ date night ~

I would never admit that I put more time than usual into Sephora that Friday night. But the reality was that Jamie was all but dragging me out of the dressing room to be on stage on time.

There was no denying it paid off, though. I couldn't remember a time I had looked so good. My eyelids felt about a hundred pounds heavier and my lips were painted in a spectrum of six different colours. My wig was pumped to maximum volume, and my outfit was made almost entirely of mesh, with a thin pink slip underneath. I buckled myself into my heels, kissing Jamie on the cheek before moseying up to the stage.

"Are you sick of me yet Crescendo?" I called through the microphone. The whooping that answered me neither confirmed nor denied. "I am Sephora Utah and I actually do have an Instagram now, so get on that if you didn't bring tips."

I was rewarded with a roar of laughter and cheering. I smiled wide, hoping there wasn't lipstick on my teeth.

"I just want to say," I continued, buzzed on the thrill of performance. "You guys are the best part of my week. Crescendo fucking tops."

Someone yelled that they loved me. I blew a kiss to the air, tugging the microphone lead so I could strut to the opposite side of the stage.

"Why is this bitch still talking?" I yelled over the deafening ambience. "I've been getting into this underground performance artist called Stefani Germanotta. I'm going to do a little tribute to her to see if I can gain her some attention and traction because y'all are sleeping on her."

The crowd shrieked like magpies as the track started up, and I struck an exaggerated pose.

I wanna hold 'em like they do in Texas, please

Fold 'em, let 'em hit me, raise it, baby, stay with me

I love it...

I made all of thirty dollars in tips, but the performance revitalised me. After the week I'd had, I need an entire room of people screaming my name while I covered Lady Gaga in my falsetto register. I handed the stage over to a queen named Princess Flah – Zsa Zsa was betraying Crescendo with another gig that night – and immediately headed to the dressing room to check the time and touch up my makeup.

Nine forty-five. I had an agonising hour to fill so that when – or if – Caleb showed up, it wouldn't seem like I had just been waiting for him. His text had hardly been an invitation. He was just relaxing our strictly established boundaries. I had a firm plan to play dumb until he approached me; if he ever did. The last thing I wanted was a rejection while I was riding a high.

I downed a single drink before cutting myself off and inserted myself into the mosh pit near the front of the stage. When someone tried to nestle up next to me, I carefully extracted myself. Even if I wasn't waiting for Caleb, I didn't want him to see me in a compromising position the second he walked in. He'd proven to spook very easy.

When the clock hit eleven, I couldn't help but look to the door. Caleb didn't show up until eleven forty, and by that point, I had been close to calling it a night. But I clocked him the second he walked in, dressed extremely modestly in another button-down and jeans, but still outshining the entire club. The air seemed to change as if the building itself became aware that it was hosting an ethereal being.

I wondered to myself how I could be whipped for someone I wasn't dating. My internal dictionary suggested that the correct word was obsessed.

I quickly inserted myself into the bar, determined not to look at him. My second drink of the night didn't go down as easily as the first, as if my liver was punishing me by collaborating with my throat to make me choke. I didn't look over my shoulder to see if Caleb was watching. I had some self-control.