The Flamingo Lounge

Lola heard the footsteps from the hallway as she sat in her dressing room. She stared straight ahead at her reflection. Her lips had grown thin and her wrinkles had grown deep. The Flamingo Lounge had seen better days and so had she.

Back in 1925 they’d both been in their prime. Lola had possessed the joints of a young woman and a voice with less vibrato. And the lounge had been an exotic club, with its palm trees, art nouveau architecture, and flamingos brought over from Cuba.

The lounge’s patrons would gawk at the pink birds while flouting prohibition with their cocktails in hand. Then they’d settle into their seats to listen to Lola, the lounge’s songbird.

A hush would fall, lights would dim, and the curtain would be drawn back. Then Lola dressed in sequins and feathers of her own would emerge and take her rightful place, center stage.

She was radiant and mysterious. Her voice would lull and stir in equal measure. No one was immune to the spell she cast.

The lounge’s owner, Ernesto, would congratulate himself after every performance for securing his siren. He’d been picking his son up from the academy when he’d heard the voice of an angel drifting out of the music hall. The angel, he had discovered, was the daughter of a wealthy Cuban family who attended boarding school in Miami. Her name was Beatriz Cabrales.

But anyone who had known her by that name had died or forgotten her. After fifty years, all that was left was Lola.

Ernesto had died. His son was in a care facility. And his grandson was bad at business.

There was no longer a flock of flamingos, just two sad females.

The paint was peeling and the palm trees looked shabby.

Instead of a packed house, there might be half a dozen listeners on a good night.

There had been a Cuban exodus and now there was an entire neighborhood called Little Havana. The Flamingo Lounge was no longer exotic and its songbird knew her kind were going extinct. But it wouldn’t make the news she knew was coming any easier to hear.

A knock sounded on the dressing room door.

“Come in,” Lola said.

Ernesto’s grandson, Anton, entered.

“Good evening, Lola,” he said. “You’re looking lovely, as always.”

Lola smiled. Anton was a terrible businessman, but he’d always been a sweet boy. “Thank you, my dear. But you shouldn’t lie. We both know I don’t look as lovely as I did a lifetime ago.”

Anton frowned and opened his mouth.

“Tut-tut,” Lola said. “And neither does the lounge. Which is why you’re here isn’t it?”

He sighed. “Well, you’re certainly sharp as ever.”

“I’ve got some of my wits left, it’s true,” Lola remarked. “But I also saw the sign.” She was referring to the large white and red ‘For Sale’ one that had greeted her this afternoon.

“Oh, no! Lola, I’m sorry they weren’t supposed to put it up yet. Not until I’d talked to you. But I’m sure you’d have guessed anyways with the way things have been lately.”

Lola nodded. The tears were beginning to well up.

“Tonight will be the last show,” Anton declared. “We already have a buyer for the property.”

“They’re going to tear it down, aren’t they?” Lola asked. “Turn it into another high-rise.”

“I’m afraid so,” Anton admitted.

Lola felt the first one escape, but did not raise her hand to wipe it away. She’d let it make a trail for the others to follow.

“Is there anything I can do, Lola? We can cancel the show tonight,” Anton offered.

"No, no,” Lola replied. “I’d like to have my final curtain call. I’ll be alright. My tears need a minute to find the edges of my face. If you'll please excuse me.”

She exited the dressing room. Making her way to the courtyard, she sat and watched the two lonely flamingos wander about the pond. At least they had each other. All she had was the lounge. She’d come here as a child and it had been her home ever since.

In all these years, she’d had her fair share of heartbreaks, but none of them would compare to this good-bye.

***

When the curtain pulled back, Lola could tell there weren’t many people in the audience, maybe four. But that didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be singing for them. She’d be singing to the walls, the palm trees, the flamingos, and to all the memories. The ones that swirled with vintage glamor and sloshed drinks on the stone floor. The ones that clapped deafeningly and called for an encore.

Smiling, she stepped out into the spotlight for the final time and sang her swan song for The Flamingo Lounge.

Author's Note: Honored to have this piece selected as the 2nd Place Winner for Christy Munson's Microfiction Challenge: My Tears Need a Minute. Check out the challenge prompt and other entries below: