Opera

MsMolko

Softly, softly creeping forward, the fabric of the flamenco dress stuck on her huge hips, the tearing making a low hum. A shrill shreek of triumphance is utter from the lips of the garangutan goddess, then held while she jerks her voice softly up and down.
A click of her fingers above her head and the song goes yet higher and her cheeks are red, like the dethorned rose thrown for her by an infatuated romantic, hopelessly devoted to her soaring song. Finishing on a high, she closes her eyes and picks up the yards of silk, somewhat gracefully darting to centre stage, listening to the rapturous applause and smiling instinctively.
Picking out some elated, shiny faces, she stares at them until they look back. A stage trick used by the very best, it keeps the red velour seats filled and makes someone feel special; hard to accomplish with a top C.
Her ecstasy completed she returns to beyond the velvet rope to unwind. Her head pounds with both pain and nausea and her hands shake; her high was taken away too soon. Peeling off the numerous intricate garments, layered silks and cottons, she has lost her aura of stardom; all that is left is an overweight talent and a fat girl's lament.