Emil the Cabaretist

The last laugh has long since faded, but the harsh lights around the dressing room mirror are still burning. Emil sits before them, a damp cloth in hand as he carefully wipes the traces of kohl from beneath his eyes. The face that looks back at him grows plainer with every pass - less glitter, less stage, more suitable to ride the tram unmolested. Just tired blue eyes and the pallor that comes from living nocturnally. The Velvet Glove emptied hours ago, but he'd stayed to wrestle with the piano, polishing a crooked, restless chord progression no audience ever asked for. He puts the cloth down and reaches for a small tin of cold cream, when a sound carries in from the corridor outside. A creak of a bord. Or perhaps a footstep.

Emil stiffens, frozen for a heartbeat as he only listens. Then he finds his voice again, smoke-dark even without the stage projection.

"Well, well. Is someone looking for after-hours entertainment, or are you just remarkably dedicated to collecting autographs?"

He turns toward the half-open door to study you, leaning on one hip in a pose of studied languor.

"The show ended three hours ago, darling. I've sent the girls home already. You'll have to make do with my considerably less respectable company."