Rosy

The unforgiving Chicago cold was seeping through the bus window and burning Mila’s cheek. All around the city, people were remarking on how fine a day it was, but only just that morning, Mila’s toes had been sinking into warm Tampa sand. To her, the sun here was not benevolent, like they said, and the sky wasn’t pleasantly bright–it was grey and plain. So grey that it was hard to tell what time it was, hard to tell how long she’d been cramped into her too-narrow seat, shamefully sneaking chips into her mouth. The wind, too, had an unkind disposition, it seemed. It was howling and knocking around the bus so that the limbs and elbows of the man beside her kept falling into her space. Mila found herself pressing her body tightly against the wall, her cheek exchanging heat with the glass. And she looked out at the brown concrete and the brown grass all around and wondered how she’d survive this miserable winter.

“It’s unseasonably warm,” said Sylvie, her new coworker, later that night. “Even the weatherman said so.” She unzipped her thin sweatshirt and stuffed it into her locker. Then she pulled out a hairbrush. It glided easily through her shiny hair, and she was finished quickly. Then she walked–or rather bounced–over to the vanity and began patting at her face with a sponge. Mila watched as Sylvie walked about the room, swaying her hips and pushing off her toes, almost skipping, each step like a celebration. She was fast, and ready in just a few minutes. She walked back to her locker to put on her heeled boots.

Finally, she looked back at Mila, who was all the while still shivering in her winter coat. Sylvie jumped a little, like she had forgotten Mila was there. Or maybe she had assumed Mila would also be ready by then. Sylvie looked her up and down. “Oh, right,” she laughed. She held out an outfit just like her own: a bedazzled bra and little black shorts. Boots, too. Mila took it all into her arms but didn’t move. It was freezing, even inside. There didn’t seem to be anywhere in this city that one could escape the cold. And also, Mila had a lot of time to kill on the way up. She’d filled most of it by snacking. Now, she was feeling quite full, which meant she could feel her stomach and the protruding presence of her gut, straining against the belt of her pants. Sylvie, on the other hand, looked like she’d never eaten anything before in her life.

“Don’t be nervous,” said Sylvie, shutting her locker. She’d grown up in the city all her life and had only known one kind of winter, so she couldn’t really understand, but she said what she’d heard other people say before: “You’ll warm up quick.” Then she patted the side of Mila’s face gently. “You look like Snow White. Meet you out there.”

When Sylvie was gone, Mila rushed to the vanity and peered at herself through the mirror. Sure enough, the cold wind had brushed her cheeks and kissed the tip of her nose, leaving behind a pleasant, rosy hue. It made her pale skin, which had always been out of place in Florida, look somehow clear and right. Her dark hair, too, now seemed less of a harsh juxtaposition and more like a pleasing contrast. Mila felt something in her chest rise. A little bud, perhaps. It spread open its petals tentatively, and her chest expanded, almost imperceptibly.

She changed quickly after that, slipping her worn clothes out from under the coat and her new uniform back in. She reminded herself why she’d come here in the first place. She needed money, yes, but she also needed her life to change. When she was done, she finally removed her coat and ran out to the hallway. Though the skimpy outfit made her feel bare, and it was smaller than the pictures she’d been sent over the phone, smaller, even, than the leotard she’d worn at her last job, she knew she didn’t have a choice. Though she wouldn’t feel any less bare once she was out there, in front of the crowd, she knew, or rather hoped, that in a way she’d feel less herself. Like some of her shame was carried by someone else: the performer. And the drunk people wouldn’t be paying attention to any small details, she assured herself. They’d be dancing, too, and really, they just wanted to watch a woman move.

So she followed Sylvie out into the hallway, and Sylvie led her up onto a platform and planted Mila on one side. “Be confident,” whispered Sylvie, as she went to take her own place, already waving and smiling, reaching out to touch hands. And Mila did what she’d always done, which was dance, which was what she loved, and smile, which was harder, and lose herself, which came naturally. She felt herself rise out of her body and watch from a few paces away. From the audience, maybe. A woman danced wildly on stage, dark-haired and pale, with rosy cheeks. A woman who was striking and commanded attention and could laugh and high-five people in the audience, just like Sylvie.

By the end of the night, Mila’s boots were stuffed with cash. Sylvie’s whole outfit was overflowing. They stumbled back into the changing room laughing, smiling, tired but still high off the thrill of performance. Mila’s little flower had been blooming away, and her chest was full. They sat down next to each other in front of the vanity to take off their makeup. Sylvie got to work right away, rubbing at her face with wipes, quickly revealing her glowy skin underneath. But Mila sat frozen. Her reflection wasn’t at all that dark-haired, rosy-cheeked dancer she’d thought she’d seen on stage.

No, in the mirror, her eyeliner had collected in puddles underneath and in the corners of her eyes, her lipstick had faded and cracked, and her hair was stuck to her sweaty forehead, frizzy and sticking up all over. Her face was hot and red all over; the delicate, rosy tint had long since disappeared. The flower just about wilted up and sulked away. Mila’s smile dropped, and she remembered how bare she was. When she wasn’t performing, she couldn’t pretend that she was someone else. It felt like the performer had dumped her shame right back onto her lap, and it was once again, all her own.

Mila dabbed away the spilled liner and caked on a new coat of lipstick. She pushed the makeup wipes closer to Sylvie and went to her locker to collect her things. She was suddenly so deeply grateful for her big coat, her pants, and the privacy her new winter clothes provided her body.

As the winter wore on, Mila came to appreciate the beauty of the color grey. And of the ice, and even of the brown grass. These were all features of a season that was new, but perhaps not unforgivable. She delighted in the feeling of her cold cheeks and her stiff nose. Sylvie wasn’t the only one to tell her the cold suited her; she was getting it a lot these days. There was even something a bit coquettish in the small shivers she still couldn't contain.

Every night, she’d return to the club. And she’d dance, and lose herself for a little while, and she’d finish and look at herself in the mirror if she had the courage, and she’d feel sad. Sylvie was still making a great deal more tips than her, and she understood that it might be because Sylvie was more beautiful than her. In consequence, Mila developed a habit of dipping off stage every so often, on the claim of a smoke break. She’d stand in the alley with a pack of cigarettes, put one, unlit, between her lips, and wait until her cheeks felt cold and numb. Then she’d go back in, with a little more confidence than before, and wear it until it wore off again. For ten minutes or so after she went back up on stage, it felt like men were throwing money at her from all directions.

Nonetheless, Sylvie would still get more tips than her, and still she’d bounce back into the changing room full of energy and overflowing with cash and ask Mila if she wanted to go out. Mila would always say no, she was tired–and she was–and Sylvie would go without her. And the next day she’d skip in, no less energetic, her hair no less shiny, her body still strong and slim.

Mila took the train back to her apartment every night, wrapped in her coat, scarf up to her chin, hair covered by a hat, taking comfort in the knowledge that all she could be judged on was the flesh of her flushed cheeks. And in this way, the season continued on until it was the last day of the year, when the club was preparing to throw its largest celebration of the winter months. The tickets were sold out, the venue would be packed, and there would even be a few famous faces in the crowd. Mila and Sylvie would be joined by girls who worked the other shifts, who, Mila was sure, were quite gorgeous and slim. She’d be going in early to meet them and set up. And since she’d known all this for a while now, she’d been carefully planning her meals and her exercise and her hair washes accordingly. Sylvie had said they’d be able to make a lot of cash that night, which Mila needed more than anything. Mila also felt, though she couldn’t explain why, that she needed to prove herself to these other dancers and the audience, too. And if the right person noticed and appreciated her, this could be her big break.

On the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, Mila ran out of hot water in the shower. She’d shampooed twice, conditioned once, and had a clay mask sitting in her pinned-up hair as she ran a razor along her legs. The water went from hot, to warm, to tepid, to cold, to icy. But Mila couldn’t get out–not before she shaved her whole body, washed out her hair, and cleansed her face. By that time, her teeth were chattering, and her fingers were pruned. Even dried off, in her robe, she couldn’t shake the cold. The heat in her apartment was ineffectual, and snow was starting to fall outside. Nevertheless, Mila carefully fastened her hair into rollers and got to work on her face.

By the time Sylvie stopped by to drop off the special New Year’s Eve bikini set, Mila was just about ready to go and feeling pretty good. She’d taken time on her makeup, and its subtle, cool tones suited her well. That little flower was peeking back out. But when she went out to meet Sylvie, her heart dropped. Sylvie looked amazing as always, but not at all as Mila had expected. Small snowflakes melted into her voluminous hair–not unlike the style Mila had planned for herself–but her face was covered in rhinestones. Red, orange, and yellow gems glittered on her eyes, her cheeks, and her forehead. Her eyeshadow was smoky and bold, more intense than anything she’d worn before, and she had red feathers glued to her eyelashes. Her face looked like it was on fire. “See you at the club, Snow White,” she said to Mila before she ran off. “We are going to make so much money!”

Mila rode the elevator back up to her apartment, already feeling defeated. She didn’t have any rhinestones. She didn’t have any eyeshadow with color. She didn’t have Sylvie’s face. Still, she thought, trying to collect herself, I can just make everything bigger. When she got back to her room, she pulled her makeup back out and uncapped her eyeliner. She pulled at the skin of her temple with one hand and with the other began to draw out a longer line. “Damnit!” She exclaimed as the line bent. Then she went back in, bolder this time, to cover her mistake. It didn’t help. She licked the tip of her finger and tried to wipe some of the black off, but she only smudged it further. “Shit, shit, shit!” She could feel her heart begin to race. Everything she did seemed only to make the situation worse. She applied a bolder shade of red to her lips, and it looked tacky. She tried to mask some of the eyeliner with eyeshadow, she lathered highlighter all over herself–no matter what she did, she couldn’t stop herself from becoming uglier and uglier. Like the frog transforming into a princess, only in reverse. She was morphing, slowly, into a troll.

Desperately, Mila took down her rollers. She clawed through the coils. They bounced and curled around in odd directions. Finally, with tears welling in her eyes, she thrust her head under the sink and ran cold water over her hair.

Not sure what else to do, Mila put on her bedazzled bikini, zipped her winter coat over it, and went out. Her hair dripped cold water down the back of her neck, and icy wind beat at her face. But it almost felt good. It felt like her smoke breaks out in the wintry dark, cooling off. The cold on her cheeks, the sting of the wind, it almost felt like the satisfied burn of muscles after exercise. A productive pain. She walked past the train station and out into the night. It wasn’t that far; she’d make it in time. And she’d make it looking like a winter goddess, ready for her life to change. Rosy cheeks, glowing skin, dark hair; cold but hot.

Halfway there, she realized she’d made a mistake. Her hair was frozen rock solid. Her body wasn’t just shivering, it was shaking so hard she could barely walk. She thought she could hear, every so often, the rich base of music; sometimes she thought she could see the glow of the downtown lights. If she could just get inside the warm club and dance off the chill, she knew she could handle the demands of the night.

She hadn’t really thought of warmth in a long time. Heat had become reminiscent of exposing Florida beaches and bikinis that revealed too much but couldn’t be replaced. Tanning under prying eyes, eyes that roamed and scanned and burned. Escaping the heat had meant freedom for a time. But now, as her teeth snapped together and her body grew stiff and numb, all Mila wanted was warmth. She wanted to sweat under the sun and sink her toes into the warm sand. Or, at least, get swallowed up in a hot crowd. She realized too late that her jacket wasn’t warm, not really. It never had been. It was just long and big. Warmth, she was certain, waited at the club. But she was still so far away, impossibly far. It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark.