Prohibited

My voice reverberates against the walls of the cramped, unadorned room as I try to keep myself occupied while waiting. At last, the door I've been facing for what had felt like hours finally opens. The blonde morality officer stares me down from across the table when she enters the darkened interrogation room.

"I was starting to worry that you had forgotten all about me," I croon, twisting my long strand of pearls around my fingertips. My manicure catches her attention, the half-moons of my nail beds exposed beneath a coat of polish in the same shade of scarlet as my lipstick. Her own lips, lacking the embellishment of visible cosmetics, hold their natural Cupid's bow shape as they fall into a frown. The chain loops on the pair of handcuffs binding my wrists clink against each other as I move, filling the tense silence.

When she quietly sets a notebook down on the table without acknowledging me, I continue, "I must say, Officer, the decor is quite lacking in here. Might I suggest a change in the lighting? I saw the niftiest lamp the other day that would really brighten up this place."

"I didn't bring you here for your insight on design," she responds, her hands folded atop the table as if she's trying to shield herself.

"Pity."

"It would be in your best interest to cooperate here, given your... less than legal occupation."

Her irises are the vivid green of absinthe stowed away in bottles that I never dared touch.

Intoxicating. Dangerous. Forbidden.

"There's laws against singing now?" I widen my kohl-lined eyes in mock surprise. "Well, I suppose you law types are just as dull as they say you are."

My evening had started off normal enough, running through my set with all the feigned emotions necessary to properly express each song as its own chapter in the story I present to my audience while they mostly ignore any depth to my performance beyond their ability to dance to the music. The musicians were almost set dressing in that sense, providing atmosphere for the boozy haze while inevitably upstaged by the illicit beverages served at the counter. Nobody came to the speakeasy solely to see me, no matter how much I sparkled beneath the spotlight, but there was no drawback to deceiving myself with the delusion that I was the centerpiece to the glittering party that this dingy old basement transformed into every night.

When I first caught a glimpse of her in the crowd, I was sure I was mistaken. Of course, it hadn't been the first time I saw her around the city, but I never thought she'd dare wander into my realm.

When my eyes locked on hers from across the room, I launched into a new Gershwin ballad that our saxophone player brought back with her from a trip to New York. Though I had rehearsed each note vigorously for a week, I let the lyrics flow from my lips as though every single word was solely meant for her.

By the time I realized that she wasn't the only officer in the room, the men had already begun to close in on the crowd. A raid.

"You know this isn't about the singing. It's the alcohol."

"All I've had to drink is a warm tea, Officer. Honest." I run my fingertips along my throat. It hadn't been a lie. I treat my voice as the precious instrument that it is. After all, it's the one tool I have at my disposal with which I can barter for my independence in this world.

"We both know you’re not that naive. You didn't just materialize on that stage one day. Somebody hired you. Somebody who has no qualms about operating outside of the laws of Prohibition. If you can tell me anything useful, I will do everything I can to make sure you get a nice plea deal." She's almost begging me to snitch.

"What happens beyond that stage is none of my business."

Her pleading gives way to annoyance when her voice takes on a firmer tone. "You have to know something about this whole operation. Tell me before I have you thrown in one of the cells for the night."

I rest my head on one hand in my best impression of a silver screen siren. "Now, is that any way to speak to your dearest friend?"

We had once shared the sort of bond that could only be forged in each other's embrace. In stolen glances once we reached the age where such closeness between girls was meant to be replaced by what society considered proper courtship.

Her tight chignon and my finger-waved bob are both far cries from the way our long, unrestrained tresses would fan out across the grass in the garden we had frolicked through with the reckless abandon of youthfulness.

While my life now is hardly lacking in reckless abandon, there's a distinct lack of that innocent affection shared between myself and the companion of my youth. Swaths of suitors tried to woo me between sets, but none ever succeeded at winning my affection. They never would.

I glance back up at the officer. Those green eyes glinted in the sunlight in a way they never could under this harsh interrogation room light, just as the perfume I always wear never could quite capture the same scent as the violets on an afternoon like that.

We promised ourselves and each other that we would escape from the expectations placed upon us. I didn't realize then that our escapes wouldn't be as intertwined as our fingers had been when we whispered those vows in secret.

"You haven't changed," I purr, letting my voice fall into a melodic lilt. Her unpainted lips fall into a slight frown. "You think you're different, a real proper lady now. You're lying to yourself. You still rejected the life that was expected of you." Maybe she thinks I hadn't noticed the way she carries herself when she's patrolling the city. The way she's outgrown her youthful shyness and channeled it into a sense of aloof confidence that seemed becoming of a morality officer. She acts as though she's been transformed, but I see the shield that it is, hiding the scandalous little secret of her own. "Why act like you're so above me just because our parallel paths happened to fall on opposite sides of the law?"

Her pursed lips tremble at my accusation. "I don't consort with criminals."

In my time at the speakeasy, I saw firsthand the bribes taken and promises broken, the corruption that permeated the police department. "I suppose we'll have to agree to disagree on that front."

"You didn't exactly run away with the circus like you always said you would," she finally counters.

"I'm still a performer," I reply, flaunting as much as I can while restrained. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of one of the beads embellishing my lavender gown catching the light.

"You're just a canary in a cage."

"And who's responsible for that?"

"This room isn't the cage I'm speaking of," she says, making a point to make eye contact with me. "I mean working at an illegal establishment."

"There's limited options for a young lady who doesn't wish to marry a well-off man. Or any man for that matter. We can't all lie about the values we hold." She recoils when I give her a pointed look at this remark. "If I'm a bird in a cage, then at least the speakeasy was a cage of my own choosing."

"Well, that choice is going to land you in a much worse cage if you can't provide us with any more information." She opens her notebook to a blank page. "If you want to fly as free as you claim yourself to be trying to be, then start talking."

"This songbird doesn't take requests."