Oliver is crying. He doesn’t know why. They sit on the steps of a closed gold shop at 3 a.m. The soi is finally quiet. A stray dog sleeps in a puddle of pink light. Fiona has changed into jeans and a faded t-shirt. Without the armor of makeup, she looks vulnerable. Human.
She watches the crowd with the detached amusement of a cat. The Japanese salarymen, drunk and apologetic. The Australian miners, loud and already flexing their wallets. The American tourists, wide-eyed and terrified, clutching their beers like life rafts.
“And the other one?” Mali whispers. “The young one with the sad eyes. He asked for you. By name.” Ladyboy Fiona
She is barefoot now. The emerald dress is gone. She wears a simple white linen shift, the kind of thing a temple dancer might wear. No wig. Her real hair is short, silver-streaked, cropped close to her skull.
Oliver looks up. Up close, she is even more disorienting. The makeup is flawless, but the eyes are ancient. They hold the fatigue of a thousand nights, a thousand lies, a thousand smiles that didn’t reach the heart. Oliver is crying
“For Fiona. The soul is in the hands. – Oliver, Bristol.”
“Survival,” she corrects.
The DJ cuts the EDM. A single spotlight hits the center of the stage. The crowd murmurs, restless. And then, the first notes of a classical piece— Clair de Lune —fill the room. It is absurd. It is sublime.
“What now?” Oliver asks.