Dancer in Shadows

The clock ticks like a time bomb as Professor Murphy drones on about market segmentation. I've already highlighted every key point in my textbook three days ago, and his monotonous voice adds nothing to what I've learned.

"And that concludes today's discussion on consumer behavior patterns," he finally announces.

I'm on my feet before his last syllable fades, notebook already tucked into my bag. The other students shuffle papers and whisper as I slip out the back door. My watch reads 5:07 PM – another day, another race against time.

"Damn it," I mutter, quickening my pace across campus. My to-do list stretches longer than my patience: groceries, nail maintenance, dinner prep, and then... work.

The bus pulls up just as I reach the stop, a small mercy in my rushed day. I flash my pass at the driver, who barely looks at me before waving me through. Finding a seat at the back, I drop into it and exhale. Business administration textbooks weigh down my bag and my future – senior year almost complete, but at what cost?

Not many business majors fund their education by dancing on a pole, but bills don't pay themselves. The irony isn't lost on me – studying market economics by day while marketing my body by night. At least it introduced me to Ryan, so I can't completely resent it.

The grocery store's fluorescent lights hurt my eyes as I grab essentials: frozen dinners, protein bars, and a bottle of nail polish remover. Self-checkout means avoiding small talk, and I'm back outside within minutes, checking the time obsessively.

My apartment welcomes me with familiar silence. I drop my bags on the counter and immediately head to the bathroom, trading my thick-framed glasses for contact lenses. The transformation begins.

"Hello, Gwen," I whisper to my reflection. College Gwen disappears a little more with each swipe of makeup. My eyes – "exotic and captivating" according to my manager – seem to change color under the bathroom lights.

I heat up a frozen pizza, adding extra cheese before devouring half of it standing at my kitchen counter. This will have to sustain me until after midnight. The shower steam fogs the mirror as I prepare for the night ahead, mentally shifting from student to performer.

The neighbors think I work late shifts at a call center. Mrs. Holloway from 3B watches me leave like she's cataloging evidence. Today, she's watering plants on her balcony as I exit the building.

"Evening, Mrs. Holloway," I call up with a practiced smile.

She nods stiffly, her eyes narrowing. "Working late again, dear?"

"Bills don't pay themselves," I respond, the truth hiding in plain sight.

The taxi driver's expression sours when I give him the address.

"Delight's, please," I say, meeting his judgment with a level stare.

He mutters something under his breath but drives anyway. His rearview mirror keeps flicking to me, then away. I'm used to it – the sideways glances, the whispers. They don't know what it's like to be completely alone in the world.

My parents' accident left me with nothing but determination. No relatives stepped forward, no safety net appeared. Just me against the world, and I refuse to apologize for surviving.

The neon pink and purple lights of Delight's come into view, the silhouette of a woman in lingerie flickering above the entrance. I pay the driver without tipping and step out into the night air that smells of cigarettes and cheap cologne.

A short line of men wait at the front entrance, being patted down by security. Ryan's broad shoulders and platinum blonde hair catch my eye immediately. As if sensing me, he looks up, and our eyes lock across the parking lot. His wink sends warmth through me – six feet of muscle and protection in a world that offers little of either.

I mouth "hey" and he responds with a subtle nod that contains more affection than most people's embraces. Ryan understands this life. "I've seen worse," he told me once when I asked if my job bothered him. "At least you're honest about what you do."

The back entrance leads to the dressing room, where bass vibrates through the walls and conversation flows between the other dancers. Perfume, hairspray, and anticipation hang heavy in the air.

I shed my street clothes and step into black lace lingerie, pulling on matching satin gloves. The platform heels add five inches to my height and a different kind of confidence to my posture. The finishing touch is a delicate mask that frames my eyes – the barrier between Gwen the student and Gwen the performer.

Dark red lipstick completes the transformation. In the mirror stands someone both familiar and foreign – a woman who commands attention and knows her worth.

"Gee, you're up in five!" calls the stage manager.

I take a deep breath. Time to dance.