Not what’s your number . Not thank you, next . She wanted my name.
I walked to center floor. The pianist played the first four bars of something slow, something aching—a ballad about wanting and not quite belonging. curvy girl auditions 7
She wrote it down. Then she smiled—not the polite, close-mouthed smile I’d learned to dread. A real one. Not what’s your number
The door opened. A woman with a clipboard and kind, tired eyes called out, “Number seven.” tired eyes called out
At the end, I stopped. The last note of the piano faded.