Shadows of the Showgirl
She lay propped up against the back door of the house. Her house. The cold sliced through the darkness and she felt the flash again. Bolts of a different kind. Warmth of another way. Thoughts of sticking fake constellations on her bedroom ceiling sparkled then jagged her mind. She could hang stars instead. Like a trapeze. They could swing like the coat hangers she scattered around the house. At least three on each door from her weekly visits to the dry cleaners. The same outfit dedusted and faded in formaldehyde that bit more each time. Most days the wire caught her in some way and never failed to surprise her with the prod of memories. They hadn't made her leave. Begged her to stay even. Look after them, train the younger ones up. She'd made the choice. That didn't mean that she didn't sometimes need to sit out here in the silvery blackness and get out the magic mirror they'd given her. She shone it down on her legs and watched them go on forever until they buckled slightly and faded into nothingness.