Sawyer smiles, "I love it. You control the tone of the piece with light. You can direct the eye. Add tension, fear, warmth, sensuality. You create foreground, background. You put ideas into the audience's heads. You can make someone look evil, or saintly."
Her enthusiasm is infectious, she's speaking with her hands and is leaning so close in Natasha's space that she can smell the alcohol on her breath. It's been a long time since she's spoken to someone with as much passion for what they do.
"So how'd you get into it?"
"I went to college for musical theatre and dance. I realized I didn't want to do that whole audition, waiting, call-back cycle. I didn't want my relatives asking about my 'big break' every Thanksgiving."
"And now you're living your dream!" Natasha couldn't be more thrilled for the young woman in front of her.
"Sure. I mean, my girlfriend left me, my shit's still in storage, my old flat mates are fucking getting their lives eating dead animal carcasses without me."
Natasha laughs, but feels a grappling panic at the responsibility she's been given. She tries to remember the script from one of the counseling courses she has done at the centre.
"It sounds like even though you are enjoying professional success, you may feel that it is out of balance with other parts of your life."
Sawyer's face crumples, goes soft and tender.
"You know, I went to my doctor," she points at Natasha. "I thought I had allergies."
Sawyer takes a long pull from her vodka soda and then slightly overbalances and catches herself on the bar again.
"Plot twist. Depression!" She tilts her head, gives a wide smile that doesn't meet her eyes.
Natasha strokes the back of her hand, "Girl..."
"So, how did you get involved in the centre?"
Natasha wants her to tell her. She wants to say how she started at NA, and stayed for some Russian lessons. She brushed up her French, kept going at NA. She got Gillian to let her offer a painting class to women at a local halfway house. She put little jars in every coffee shop in JP to pay for her paints and canvases. She loved talking to the women and hearing their stories. They'd put on a little exhibition of their work and Natasha had taken a picture of every one of them standing by their paintings. She didn't brush her hair. She had a bucket of animal bones soaking in bleach by her front door. Gillian paid for her to do a yoga certification, and Natasha had mown her front lawn for a year to pay her back. She got a new apartment. She told no-one her address. She found hundreds of little plastic baggies hidden all over her old apartment. She put them all in a shoebox to make something with someday. She sharpened all of her college quality pencils before she left.
The South End dykes knew nothing of that. It was like growing bleach out of her hair. Every few months she was able to cut off a few of the nasty dry ends, and enjoy the fresh new hair. These days, she feels that the bleach is almost gone.
But Natasha doesn't say that. Natasha says, "I wanted to learn Russian, and at the time they had a skill for skill swap. So I taught some yoga, and then we kept adding classes."
Natasha changes the subject, "What sort of dance do you do?"
"Well I used to dance when I lived in Chicago, but I'm not sure I'll do that here. That was a bit of everything, but I love tap the most."
"No fucking way!"
"Yes! Come on, I'll show you - " Sawyer pulls Natasha out to the smoking area at the back. It's small and fenced off, low velvet sofas pushed against the outer wall. Small fairy lights hang low from where they are tacked up between the wooden fences.
Sawyer pulls up her skirt, wriggling her big hips from side to side to get the tight material up. She stands and waits for Natasha's full attention. She holds one arm across her chest to support her breasts and bends one hand at the wrist beside her ear.
"You have to pretend that I'm wearing tap shoes. Hold my glass."
She begins to flap her feet, shuffling forward and back. Her blonde curls are bouncing, her arm can't quite keep her breasts down. She's laughing with her mouth open, she slaps her free hand across it. She shuffles round in a circle. Natasha can see the crease where her ass meets her thigh. Natasha wants to reach out and jiggle it, wedge her hand in it. Sawyer wiggles and gives Natasha a wink over her shoulder. Natasha's fairly sure that she's looking at Sawyer like she wants to do her some damage. But she can't help it, because she does.
"Now you, come on," Sawyer teases, wiggling her fingers. "Yoga woman has to have some moves. I want to see you spread your legs!"
"You want side to side or front to back?"
Sawyer crows, "Ooh, whichever is going to hurt those pretty bendy legs the most!"
Natasha sets her ankles and lets her legs sink outwards either side of her body. She holds eye contact with Sawyer all the way down. Sawyer doesn't blink, breathes out roughly through her mouth.
As she slides down to the bottom she pulls out her cigarettes and lights one.
