The music never really stops in the club.

High, vibrant, echoing throughout your body as if it were part of your heartbeat. Each night, each performance, it was as if you disconnected from the world, and for a moment could become someone else.

You were adjusting your heels after a performance when you felt her gaze. You didn't need to look to know she was there. Perfectly composed, clothes that seem to have been tailor-made, elegantly lethal. She was always there. In the same place, the third table on the right, near the stage, but still distant from the others. She was always alone, never applauded, she didn't cheer, always only watching, observing, never anything more.

When you step onto the stage, the crowd reacts like they always do. Bills. Whistles. Hunger. You give them the version of yourself that pays the rent.

But her gaze didn't follow your body; it was focused on your face,again only watching you.

After you finished your performance, you stepped off the stage, your breath heavy from the exertion, your feet tired, but the rhythm of the music kept you energized enough.

That's when a staff member approached you "She booked a private room," he says "She wants you."

She had never done that before. Even so, you nod and walk to the area reserved for private rooms.

The private room is dim, insulated from the noise. The door clicks shut behind you, sealing you into a softer silence. She’s already seated.

Before you could move, she spoke first: “You don’t have to start yet,” she says.

You wonder why, after all, wasn't that the goal of everyone who booked the private room?

As if sensing your confusion, she explains herself without moving: “I don’t come here for your body.”

Her eyes were fixed on yours.

“I come here because this is the only place I’m allowed to look at you.”