They call me Femme Fatale.

I'm a copper girl these days. Golden curls and crazy curves, the whole thing. I like pretty dresses form the fifties, the ones that suggest, free and enhance. I like my hips; they say it's hard to look at my lips. They are well defined, though and I love to pain them ruby red.

I know what works best.
 
It took me years to perfect my look. Hundreds of magazines; a few conventions; endless trips to the city to find the best thrift stores by day and to admire pretty ladies stripping off their clothes by night. I wanted this world. And soon enough, it accepted me.

I started as a cashier in my small town's club. The only one. The kind my mother told me not to be seen at, in case it would affect her affairs. Lovely lady. She's dead now, so it doesn't matter much anymore.
 
I found peace there, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. They weren't the busiest shifts (newbies never got weekends) but it was the best way to study these beauties. How they walked. How they talked to the clientele. How they would wait for a taxi, at the end of a show, half-naked under a black coat, fully alone.
 
I wished I could fix their heart.
 
I started talking to Rikki. She was the most approachable, the most vulnerable; she was in need of a shoulder. She was my age; a brunette with the most wonderful body. Her routine, a two-minute French Can-Can, was quite unnoticeable. But Rikki knew how to get tips: “Make them believe you need them, and them they need you.” She succeeded at the first part. She had a list of ex-lovers whom she thought she would marry. She was a lonely princess, and the White Knights never bothered.
 
I killed Rikki on a Sunday afternoon, over a glass of G&T. She needed to be freed from the White Knights dream.
 
I cried over her, enough that, although I was the last person to have seen her alive, in her tiny suburban flat, I didn't find myself in trouble. I left the club shortly after Rikki's funeral, and people believed it was because of my grief.
 
I had found my way. Other hearts were calling.
 
Landing a job in the City was exhilarating. The clubs were bigger here, and the beauties more explosive and guarded. I got a full-time gig with the promise I would be on that stage, soon. I nodded and went on with my work. I had regular customers calling me by my name at the cashier. My looks impressed, my manners enchanted. I went on a few dates with gentlemen who took pride in looking dapper. They were chatty. I was silent, bored to death. Their hearts didn't deserve my help.
 
And then Taylor came into my life. A complete surprise.
 
I was working backstage. The boss noticed I had an eye for beautiful fabrics and loved my home-made dresses, so one day I started stitching and fixing accidents on exquisite, sparkly, stretchy garments. My best job in a long while; sewing directly on the dancers, sharing an intimacy even the most tender lovers missed. Behind the stage, the cold feel of the measuring tape around my neck, and the hot spot of their hips in my hands. So close.
 
Taylor was young. She claimed she was 21, but I could swear she was 16, top. She had fewer numbers than the other dancers, and I would see her hanging around backstage, trying on outfits while the others performed. I could see the fascination in her eyes as she tried a Cleopatra wig on. She was different from the other staff: a home to come back to, no real need for a part-time job and a beautiful, pristine skin that never knew any shade of violent blue.
 
And yet she had a heart to mend.
 
She too liked my dresses. She liked sewing, she said, but she didn't feel ready for big pieces of clothing. I gave her one of my patterns one day, and she insisted on buying me dinner to thank me.
We went to a lovely Thai restaurant on the other side of the town. Taylor kept glancing at my dress. A simple black A-line skirt with a red hem and a black lace bust with a red collar. “Is it one of your own designs?” she asked, finally, sipping a Cha Dum Yen.
“-Yes. I called it the Rikki Dress.”
 
Taylor was terribly good company. She was longing to be a part of this world, just like I was, just a few years before.  She was easily dismissed by the others. The staff, including the dancers, the boss, Mairi the bartender, didn't care much about Taylor. I could sense it was not much different at home. For a while, I thought my company was enough to fix her.
One evening, after a busy shift where I had to sew reluctant diamonds on her bra, Taylor kissed me, and I knew I would never be enough.
 
No one knew where Taylor went. Some nights, I would forget, too.
 
I stayed for a while, measuring fabric for the pretty girls who needed the stage. I stayed for a while, and so did Patty, Margaret and Alice. Their hearts were just okay.
 
They weren't Taylor. They weren't even Rikki.
 
I stayed too long. That was my mistake.
No matter how well their hearts got fixed, I shouldn't have stayed there.
I should have left before the police officer came at the Club, in daylight, too often. I should have left before the Boss got questioned over the girls' disappearance. I should have left when I heard about “another case, maybe a connection in the suburbs.”
 
I told the officer I was the connection, in that white room, smelling of old coffee. He didn't believe me at first.
He kept calling me sweetheart, said he wouldn't fall for me. I told him there was no need, his heart was beyond repair. His smile soon vanished. I imagine someone had shown him pictures of my girls.
 
They call me Femme Fatale, or Heart Breaker.
 
Since then, I have been waiting in another white room. My dresses have been brought here. My only wish. I refuse to wear their blouses.
I am wearing my Taylor dress today: an emerald wiggle dress with a cat pattern top. Taylor loved cats.
I hope they find her soon. I didn't leave her far behind, I just don't remember where.
Time is slow here. I take care of my looks to pass the time. I started making victory rolls, they are the talk of the yard. The nurses are lovely, they ask for my secrets.

There are no secrets. I just wanted to be part of this world.