The Lounge Singer

Mila’s hiring at the Sheraton Hotel bar broadened her world.

At barely eighteen, after years under Julia’s seething wrath, Mila mistook that widening for freedom.

Maybe it was, at first.

The music. The polished glasses. The hotel guests, mostly from the United States, came and went with offers of fun and money, secrets and grief.

Mila had no idea how unprepared she was.

She soon befriended the lounge singer, Zaida, who became flirtatious first with her eyes, then with small gestures Mila did not know how to name. Secret glances turned into something neither of them dared call a romance.

It was Zaida who planted the first kiss ever on Mila’s lips, as they parted discreetly one late afternoon.

Mila had secretly wondered why her father had been so vocal against the job.

It meant nothing to Julia.

“Of course your father would say that. He doesn’t even look for steady work.”

To his credit, her father never once showed up at the Sheraton to ask Mila for even a dollar.

Apophis sure did.

It didn’t take him long to ask for a loan. Mila, who by then felt nothing but revulsion at the sight of him, turned him down.

The next day, Julia showed up with Apophis. The usual head slant. The bright red forced smile. Her hair no longer coiffed.

It worked.

Apophis never paid her back.

It didn’t take long for Mila to start dating, hanging out after work with the rest of the crew, drinking until dawn.

She knew when to push the booze aside and sip water.

She felt invincible.

Uplifted by Zaida.

Dates that lasted until the moment they both had to return to the lounge.

Discreet glances across the room.

A certain gaze that meant: this song is for you.

Mila began to imagine not leaving after all.

And if she did leave, maybe she would be the one waiting for Zaida in Miami by next year.

Then, suddenly, Zaida became ill. Hours after a dental appointment, she was rushed to the hospital.

Mila went back and forth as often as she could.

One night, it was just the two of them. Mila sat beside her on the hospital bed, close enough for their hands to find each other under the sheet.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mila caught Zaida trying to fix her hair, smiling almost sheepishly.

“Te ves linda así, natural…”

In the wee hours of a Thursday in April, Zaida managed to get out of bed. She took a few tentative steps toward the place where she was sure to find Mila.

When they embraced, Mila’s hands slid, uncertainly, to the small of her back.

The allure of intimacy.

Even if neither of them had a word for it.

Zaida was Mila’s first kiss.

Her first shared secret.

Her first moment of being wanted.

They stood locked in a silent embrace, hiding tears, desire, fear, and everything they did not yet know how to say.

As if they could disappear into each other.

Zaida died the next day.

That was one of the doors.

Not the only one.

But one of the first to close behind her.

Beer came easily, scotch followed. 

Her father had told her not to take the job.