I focus on her lips. “What?”
She says, “I’m happy I came.”
Squeezed into the table like she is, her breasts rise and fall with every breath. I don’t know if that’s due to her bra, or her top, or being squeezed between me and Brant, or fucking magic or what, but I’m enjoying the view as I peer down at her in all her glory.
I lean in and say, “Can’t wait ‘til you’re up there.”
She studies my eyes too long, her own glowing in the dim light that hangs above our table. If I’m not mistaking that look, I’m feeling a pull toward her lips. She’s inviting me to kiss her, just with that daring, mischievous look in her eyes.
Then she looks up at the stage. I look too, only to discover everyone applauding suddenly.
The very next moment, Dessie’s left my side. I watch as the guitarist relinquishes his stool to her, sliding to the side of the pianist as Dessie steps onto the stage. Everyone at my table is clapping, so I do the same, following their lead until I see their hands stop moving. Then the only thing in the room that’s got my attention is Dessie.
And she’s looking right at me from the stage. Her body glows under the harsh stage light. I have to say, from my experience in technical theatre, it takes a special kind of person to make ugly light look pretty.
And fuck, she does that job without trying.
Dessie’s hand runs up the microphone. She brings her lips to it, then introduces herself to the room.
But I can’t catch any of the words. Frustrated, I pull out my phone, determined to find that horrible speech-to-text app I’d downloaded. Then, coming to my rescue, Dmitri starts moving his hands for me, and I could kiss him for his keen intuition.
Hey, I’m Dessie, my awesome roommate interprets for me. Some of you know me from last time. Or last night. Or whatever, I’m not good at these things. Ha! These crazy musicians, Dirk and—what’s your name?—Lorenzo, wanted me back here to sing one of my little tunes. Want to hear it? I have something … but it’s a little angsty. I … Dmitri stops, looking up at Dessie to gather what’s happening, because she’s laughing. When she starts speaking again, he resumes: Alright, then! I’ll sing it. I hope you like it. I have no idea what the musicians are going to do, but they’re good at improvising. This one’s called, “The Liar”.
Dessie closes her eyes to bring herself to that place where all the music and beauty comes from. All that tension I saw the moment she came in, it’s like it was never there. Totally relaxed, loose as the breeze, she holds the microphone and kisses it to her pink lips.
And through Dmitri, I watch the words flow:
These nails that I wear,
the curls in my hair,
my talent and my flair,
it’s all fake. I’m a liar.
And the makeup on your face,
wearing leather or wearing lace,
or that cologne you embrace,
each just another lie, I say,
just another thing in the way.
You’re a liar, too.
That’s not how you really look.
Just another billion dollar lie
sold to you by a billion dollar book.
And that’s not how you really smell.
Whether from soap, cologne, or shampoo,
I don’t think you know yourself as well
as you think you do.
Just like me, an actress who lies all day
reading another line from another play
being some other person, some other name.
We’re all liars just the same.
And just when you’re ready to let it go,
too exhausted to keep up the show,
you get a glimpse inside another’s eyes
and you’ll finally see
the only way free
is to be a liar who never lies.
After the last lyrics are signed, the musicians seem to still be filling the space with music, the guitarist’s hands strumming as Dessie hums against the mic, her eyes closed and lost in the song.
And I’m lost in her, my arms folded and my jaw tight.
She opens her eyes and they find me.
I wonder if she sees my lies.
My truths.
My way free.
And then the room shakes with applause, and I lift my own hands to join them, watching as Dessie takes in the cheering with a laugh, a pink face, and then a grand, demonstrative bow.
She returns to the table and her friends explode with their reactions, offering compliments and happy faces and laughter. Dmitri tells her how beautiful her voice was, but was worried about what the lyrics meant: If I’ve lied to you, he says to her as he signs at the same time for my benefit, then I’m totally sorry and, you know, please don’t write a song about me.