The phone buzzed again, breaking Mars’ concentration. She put the round brush down, screwing the cap of the toner back on while peering anxiously at the newly formed dark spots under her eyes. Aretha Franklin was wrapping up another set over the speakers — Mars’ dressing room was dark, boudoir themed with achingly soft red velvet drapes and a well lit vanity. She fiddled with the volume controls, then asked her d’assistant to call Joe back.
It had to be Joe. No one else had her new number.
“Hey Mars. I think you’re going to like this news.” Joe’s pitched tenor faded in as Franklin faded out. Never mind the fact that she had gone AWOL for a week, Joe stayed unconcerned. He sang a steady baritone in men’s quartets on the weekends, at bar mitvzahs and weddings and the seasonal Christmas shows in Atlanta, but his phone voice pitched tenorous. Mars had met Joe through the local scene when her singing career was just taking off — he was the only agent she’d ever had; he’d never given her reason to get antsy.
“I just signed you for the first stage at Coachella, Mars. It’s a great deal, I got them to agree to give us royalties on any drone feeds, same as they promised Billie. How you feeling? Are you still out with that skin condition?”
Mars switched on the video feed, pushing the toner out of the frame. “Here, see for yourself, what do you think? I think it’s evened out a bit Joe, but it’s still lighter than it was last week. My sister had a fit last night when we hung out — she’s jealous those skin treatments we did three weeks ago did more for me. Sure I’m not the out of Africa black I’ve been known for. It’s temporary. I’ll totally be fine by April.”
Mars’ toner had tinted her skin from dark tan to an even darker coffee complexion, but it was still a few shades from her normal, inky deep complexion.
“Mars, you’re a star. Your fans love you for your voice, for your talent, for your *you*. Skin is skin. So what if you’re a bit lighter? I mean Michael Jackson still had a career. Everybody likes a little caramel.”
Mars laughed, her eyes crinkling at the edges, the toner making the deep traces deeper, more inky, more Mars.
“Great, so we’re on. Exciting times Mars! But hey look, next time you decide to go dark keep me looped in. My Pisces heart can’t take the stress of you falling silent.”
Mars laughed again, a deep sonorous velvet richness of a sound, the kind of open throated beauty prized by operatic ears for centuries. “Alright Joe. Later”
Joe faded out, Aretha faded in.
On a hunch, Mars checked her email again. Still nothing from Lilith yet. She rested her head on her hands, briefly and exhaled deeply through her mouth, pushing all of the air deftly out through her belly, her ribcage, sinking her shoulders down with a slight shudder. She rubbed her temples, picked her brush back up, unscrewed the toner and, catching sight of her face in the mirror, burst into tears.
to be continued