Poppies

He pins it to her. A white poppy made of old tissue paper. Its thin stem wooden green. A nappy safety pin to hold it to her breast. 

He stands back. Regards her. Look at you, he says, ruffling her hair loose from its black band, touching her lower lip with a finger. 

She blinks, steps past him, looks at herself in the wall mirror. They are in a large crimson anteroom on the second floor of the theatre. Her long black dress, sleeveless and backless, is too loose around her hips. She has diminished, she thinks, in the last few weeks. 

His poppy, purple paper with a daube of gold glitter in the centre, is tucked into the ribbon of his top hat. Jazzy, he says, pointing at it and twirling around her. He clicks his heels, bows.

They are alone in the anteroom. Alone in the theatre. Apart from the marmalade cat, all ribs and balding, that dumps half eaten rats under the grand piano that still hovers the stage. The piano’s black keys have been obliterated, its velvet cushioned stool long since burnt for heat or comfort or just for something to do.

Let’s dance, he says, taking her hands in his. She frowns, pulls her fingers away. His touch is sticky awkward on her skin. I don’t remember how, she says. 

She steps back, he steps forward. 

We used to know, he says. His voice is light, neutral. She can’t meet his eyes. Outside a siren blares, passes, fades. The walls shudder. Wind pushes in through the broken windows. It’s dark out, a shade beyond grey. 

He steps forward, she steps back. 

See, he says, we’re dancing. She shifts her weight from one leg to the other. Stretches her hips. Shakes the old silk around her bare legs. Black is a colour she’d never worn. 

Until this.

She touches her tissue flower. Where? she asks. Where has he been, where did he get it, did he go further than he should? 

Here, he says. I was just here. He sweeps his arm around the room. A great wide flourish. Clacks his heels on the parquet floor, bends his knees, lifts his top hat in the air, and dances. Off he goes, languid and febrile, glib and gauche. Round her, and round her, in ever increasing circles. Clacking through the shards of glass, leaping the collapsed beam, kicking up the dust into dull dove clouds. 

He reaches the far corner of the room by the door to the stairwell. The corner with the white spangled tulle dress splayed out in a foolish soft pile. Where a woman might have stood. Fluting champagne, smoking Silk Cut through jade or ivory. Holding a wrist out for a curtsy or a kiss. He stops.

Another siren. The room blinks blue red blue and back to bare.

She lifts her arms, points a toe, follows him to the corner, clomping through the glitter in her hiking boots. He looks down at the white dress, moves off towards the window. A little skip a little jump. A snap of fingers from each grubby raised hand. 

She puts her hands on her hips, lifts her skirt. Furls and unfurls. Lunges and lifts. Tango without his frame. They dance and tap and spin around the room, out of synch, in breathy ravaged silence across the shards. Passing the white dress again and again. 

She stops first. Her boots inches from the embroidered frock. They look at each other. They look at the dress. He picks it up with both arms. Cradling it. Rocking it. To and fro. She leans in. Resting on him. Drops her face. Breathes in the milky breath. The talcum powder. The  coddling. 

Look at you, she says. Look at you two.