She loved the word chanteuse and used it with all her friends. She left the meaning for them to figure out but told them to her it meant being a goddess.
"What type of goddess"? they would ask.
"The best," she would reply. She found it a great comfort to covet the most expensive and beautiful pleasures of life, and it seemed to her that a chanteuse would have everything.
In the mornings, she drank strong and bitter espresso and pirouetted in front of her mirror.
"Chanteuse, chanteuse, you are lovely," she would say to her image, convinced that no other woman was ever as graceful and elegant as she. The morning sunlight would catch the small jewels she had sewn into her gown and scatter beads of light that she wanted with all her soul to capture and hold.
"Lovely, lovely," she would say as the sparkling light followed her turns and poses.
She became so enamored of her image that she had to tell someone and called in to a radio show she liked.
"Hello, caller. What's your name?"
"Chanteuse? What are you, a singer?"
"A singer? No, I am a goddess."
"Yeah, right. Next caller, please."
submitted at 2:23am
5 July 2011