Aces
The theatre was mostly empty, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary. Cindy was used to singing to an empty room. It was her job, but she didn’t do it because she was required to. She was Jethro Yates’s wife, she didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to. Cindy sang because she loved it. She even loved the Aces theatre, despite how dark and musty it was. She sang on stage with a cigarette in her hand. She found that the room looked better when veiled in smoke. There were a few gamblers in the back of the room, probably drowning their sorrows about their losses in liquor. They were smoking too, so the Aces was looking good, and so was she.
When pauses came in her song, she puffed on her cigarette. The sound of her voice was impaired by the cigarettes, but it added to the effect; it improved her talent. When one song ended, she continued smoking and tried, however half-assed, to involve the audience. “How’s everyone doing tonight?” she asked, her voice ragged. The music picked up and she started another song.
It was right in the middle of a line that her husband walked in. She didn’t hesitate to stop and say, “Hiya, doll,” enthusiastically into the microphone. She picked the song back up as if she hadn’t stopped. She knew this gig like the back of her hand. The song ended and her applause was louder than it had been for the rest of her performance. She knew it was because her husband was in the room, and people feared him, but she still smiled. She loved attention. Always had. She raised her finger and beckoned Jethro.
When he approached the stage, she balanced her cigarette in her lips, and leaned her hands on his shoulders, transferring her weight into his arms, instead of walking off stage. Before he placed her on the ground, she removed her cigarette and kissed him. Even with heels on, she wasn’t tall enough to reach his lips for a kiss without a little help from him. “How’s it going?”