Sideshow Heyday By Allison Heim
Because her beauty shocked, akin to starlet autopsy photos or the Black Dahlia, everything flattered her, Butterick pattern dresses, tin combs in her dark waves
and in the light of every gaze receiving a blush-pumping smile,
you could almost divide your attention from the glory of her sister growing from her torso: twisting in the gap
of two parted pearl buttons, a pair of nymphet legs, feet sporting white ankle socks and Mary Janes—the soles gleamed. During the depression they made forty grand a week,
between the two of them.
It wasn’t that bad, answering the row of eyes noon to midnight, sister asleep in her chest cavity kicking at the occasional dream of a separate body. Even
the stubbornest onlooker ejected his popcorn in surprise. No matter if they lined up in ties or coveralls, most were bald, sharing the plague of pointy heads and uncontrollable
erection disorder, not to mention symptoms of bug-eye and the shakes, the ravages of carnal love. It was quite a spectacle to fog up the house of mirrors: see oily men leer at her two pairs
of supple legs, crossed as she sipped a Coke, her image reflected around the tent as she posed for every pane of glass and made precise eye contact. She loved how each man
had a matching woman equally ruddy or pale.
She bit her tongue in the shadows like a lady, positioning her sister for photographers and blinking from the mansion’s view,
secluded high up with the sun and sitting on the fortune from everyone’s kitchen jar, the hard labor of others.
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