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I love how he melts. So soft and vulnerable, so full of surrender—no, not surrender. This is a gift. There’s no war in this kiss. No power-play. Just an honest-to-God closeness.

He shudders and lifts his hands to touch my back. I squeeze him nearer, and he tightens his arms. Christ, how long has it been since I’ve been embraced? Since I’ve kissed someone without being blindfolded or bound or…

“Yeah, this is what I needed.” Carlos won’t open his eyes, about to tremble into pieces. “I didn’t know to ask, but…”

“You really ought to go.” I keep holding him. “Process this shitstorm.”

“Yeah.” He agrees and pulls a little away.

I have trouble letting him go.

“Are you…” He glances at the cameras, hesitantly. “Going to go, too?”

Am I going to go to Mr. Ito? Going back to the evil faceless bastard. “No. I don’t think I will.”

Maybe not ever again.

I watch Carlos settle himself and leave, awkwardly saying half sentences before finally getting out a stunted. “S-see ya.”

But when he smiles in the doorway, I know I’m done. I’m gonna choose Carlos. I don’t care where it goes. I don’t care how long it lasts.

This is better.

****

I go to Mr. Ito’s apartment when he’s at work. I don’t have a lot of stuff there. Hair products and a change of clothes. I leave him the cameras and a note. He probably deserves more from me. After all, there’s legitimate buzz around this burlesque, and our summer camp is all but set because of his donations. In the note, I tell him I don’t want this conversation in person because I can’t trust myself. I tell him I choose Carlos and that I’m sorry to break our arrangement early. I keep it as professional as possible.

When I think … maybe just one more night. Give him something to remember me by … I look at that damned demon mask. One more time to try to see his face.

But no.

I’ve made my choice.

And if I’m honest, I like the mystery.

****

Two weeks later, the show is on. Between performances and the scattered interviews for local podcasts, radio stations, and news, there is no time to even think about romance. Carlos and I make out once or twice backstage, but it’s always accidental and certainly wouldn’t get beyond heavy petting and the occasional wildly inappropriate grope.

By the first week of December, actual reviewers see the show. I mean, we’re not entertaining anyone from The New Yorker, but still it’s actual coverage, and we’re selling enough seats that Van suggests sprucing up the lobby. Get a wood floor instead of that dingy red carpet next season. Joanna brings me a personal review that mentions my solo dance. To be honest, I’m prouder that nearly every review talks about the amateur pole-dancer number. It’s a risk to mix community with professional but their enthusiasm is contagious; the audience loves them.

****

Tomorrow is the final show. Since Christmas is in a few days, the company has made the executive decision to fuck strike. We’ll deal with dismantling our most successful show in the New Year. After the matinee tomorrow, we have plans to splurge on pizza and beer in a thoroughly self-congratulatory exercise. Then we will go our separate ways. Carlos is getting on a plane to California at nine PM.

So, I’m getting that coffee date tonight. I’m going to keep him awake all night if he lets me. Give him something to fantasize about while he’s cooped up with his extended family.

But after the show, when I go to the lighting booth, Van is the one in front of the board calling the final cues to usher the audience out. She smiles at me like she could sleep through the next two weeks and wake up when the holidays are over. I look around as if Carlos is hiding.

“Where’s Sweetness?”

“He left a few minutes after the show. Said we’ll see him tomorrow.”

Fear clenches my heart. “That’s not like him.”

Van shrugs and looks past me to the auditorium full of mingling crowds. “He didn’t say anything was wrong, but he did seem like he was in a hurry.”

That fear gnaws quietly.