Phoenix

scarlet poppies on weathered parchment, apples crushed beneath snow white teeth. glass figurines perched on a stage, fresh baked bread slathered with jam. singsong sonnets quoted laughingly. birds of a feather flock together

In all her years of playing hard and fast and loose with others, Lillian’s never met anyone like Phoenix. She pushes aside others’ feelings as easily as throwing a pair of dice, as tearing a flower to shreds, but seeing her dance twists her up inside, a rawhide ribbon close to its breaking point.

She comes to every performance.

And how it frustrates her, the coquettish rogue, the silver-tongued charmer, the one who’s supposed to sweep others off their feet, but she can’t even work up the nerve to talk to her. Phoenix must have noticed by now, at least, or maybe Lillian’s assessment of herself is too optimistic.

She pines.

After a few weeks of this, Lillian begins daily to leave a red feather on her seat before departing. Every night when she returns, the feather is gone. She doesn’t know whether Phoenix has been taking them or whether the feather has simply drifted away on the breeze, but the thought gives her comfort.

One night, she gets into a fight on the other side of the city and realizes, half an hour too late, that the performance is already halfway finished. She rushes to the theater, breath ragged, clothing torn, hopes beyond hope that she can at least make it to the last ten minutes.

Delayed by pedestrian traffic, she arrives at nearly midnight, far past when all the regulars have departed and the lights have been dimmed. She makes her way through a maze of doors and then, at the top of the stairway that leads to her customary seat, she halts.

Phoenix is there. Her crimson wings, so similar to Lillian’s own, are curled protectively over her pale body, which quivers silently with each breath.

She realizes that the dancer looks distraught.

Surely it can’t be because of her?

Her claws clack against the stone steps as she walks down to the seat row. Phoenix whips around, her expression fierce. For the first time since she’s seen-no, fallen, head-over-heels, for the Skydancer, Lillian is able to marshal her thoughts into cohesive actions and sentences. She feels like her old self again.

“Bellissima,” she says, taking one of the roses she always pins to her clothing and nonchalantly tossing it at her. “Are you okay?”

“You came?” Phoenix asks. Her voice shakes with a repressed sob. “It wasn’t even important to me at first. I always found the feathers after I danced but I didn’t think anything of it. But as time went on, I grew more and more attached. Finding one became the highlight of my day.” She chuckles, blushing madly at the thought of it.


Lillian is again lost for words. Her heart skips a beat, and she has to remind herself to keep breathing, in and out and in and out.

“I kept them. The feathers. I was going to commission jewelry to wear on stage.” Phoenix stutters jerkily.

She realizes that the other Skydancer is looking at her expectantly.

In and out.

“Would you like to...” Lillian’s voice falters and fails her. “Would you like to...try to have a relationship?”

In and out in and out in and out.

“You came.” It isn’t so much a question now as it is a statement. The dancer draws closer and presses her lips to hers.

Lillian gives up on breathing, because all that matters now is the liquid fire coursing through her veins at Phoenix’s feather-light touch.

She tears herself away, bitter as it is to be separated, if only for a heartbeat.

“Always.”