[52] TOURNELLE DU SOLEIL • POST-SHOW (Patreon)

“You were magnificent!” the businessman exclaims, arms spread wide as he cuts in amidst the other artists to stand next to me. He slides his arm around my waist, flashing watch and one well-manicured hand resting on the seam of the dress where the lower spikes meet the upper ones. It’s appropriate–but there’s a familiarity that I’m missing the context of. Okay. I lock eyes with the handler again. She looks excited.

He tips his lightly stubbled chin up to me, sandy brown hair falling away from a mid-life-lined face as he shouts something into my left ear. Whatever he’s saying to me is completely lost in the blast of the music, the cacophony of the crowd. I pretend I can hear (feels like the most appropriate course of action), smiling graciously until photos have been taken on many cameras and he slides his arm off my waist and disappears back into the crowd.

I keep my megawatt smile in place as the handler slides over and guides me off and away through the crowd, which turns away and parts. They’re bored with us now, looking for another floating tray of drinks or hors d'oeuvres. Must be an average Thursday evening for this bunch.

Safely backstage and beginning to peel myself out of the layers of costume, I turn to the other artists. “Do you know who that last guy was? The business guy, in the light grey suit?”

Virginie is cruising by. “That’s the CEO,” she says, a couple celebratory bottles of champagne tucked under each arm for the room.

“CEO of what?” I ask, stumbling after her as I half-trip into my sweatpants.

“–––” her answer is drowned out in a whooping cheer coming from a cluster of cast and crew to my right.

“SORRY, WHO?” I call out, louder.

“CIRQUE,” she repeats, louder.

I blink stupidly. Oh.

* * * * * * *

Time leaps ahead in another series of lurching gulps.

Cooling my back down. Doing my abs. Shoving some food in my face.

Kim Petras coming downstairs for a five second photo op, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else in the world at this moment (she probably just wants to go home).

Showering briefly back in my hotel room, keeping my beautifully-made-up face out of the stream of water. Two more Advil. Not feeling bad, but not feeling good. Not feeling much. Just feeling overwhelmed.

Wriggling my damp skin into a tight purple leopard-print dress I’d bought off a sidewalk rack with Fiona, the cyr wheel artist, the day after we’d first arrived in Brooklyn.

Cramming into an Uber with a handful of the other artists, most of them half in the bag already. Tumbling out somewhere twenty-five minutes away, in some other heart of Brooklyn, and through the door of …

A drag bar.



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Your next instalment of Tournelle du Soleil arrives tomorrow at 7am EST / 1pm CEST!
Until then, stay strange & wonderful - XO ess