Latifa sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the eviction notice. Three days. That’s all she had to find a hundred and eighty dollars—or she’d be out on the street. She rubbed the side of her neck, fingers pressing into the tight muscle like she could knead the panic out.

Her eyes drifted around the one-bedroom apartment. Towels were rolled and stapled along the window frames, the makeshift insulation sagging under its own weight. Three layers of cloudy plastic hung over the glass, crinkling every time the wind pressed against it. The radiator rattled and hissed, doing little more than stirring the cold. Her knees bounced once, then stilled—the cold air bit at her bare feet through the floorboards.

The bed creaked beneath her as she shifted, the thin mattress dipping in the middle like it was tired of holding her up. A chipped dresser leaned against one wall, one drawer permanently stuck half open. A single bare bulb buzzed above her, throwing weak yellow light across peeling wallpaper and a floor scarred with cigarette burns.

December in Ottawa wasn’t the time to be out on your ass—with nowhere to go and no one waiting on the other side of the door.

She hesitated, thumb tracing the paper’s creased edge before letting it flutter from her hand. Then she picked up the two quarters her mother had tossed at her the day she kicked her out last year. Her words still burned in her mind: “Here’s two bits. Tell your first customer it’s on me.”

Latifa let the coins clink in her palm. Dear Lord, don’t let her be right, she thought.

What scared her most wasn’t that her mother believed her only skill was lying on her back—it was the creeping fear that tonight might be the first step in proving her right.

Her chest rose and fell once, sharp and shallow, before she leaned forward and reached for the boots sitting by the dresser—black vinyl with cracked heels and creases that wouldn’t buff out. The kind of boots that made promises her heart wasn’t ready to keep. The zipper stuck halfway, as it always did, teeth catching where the lining had split.

She set them beside the bikini on the bed. Together, they looked like a costume from another life—someone braver, cheaper, or just too tired to care.

Latifa stared at them a long time, then folded the bikini into a neat square, tucked it inside her worn purse, and dropped the boots in after it. The bag sagged under the weight.

She caught her reflection again in the mirror—pale light, tired eyes, shoulders squared just enough to fake it. Her fingers trembled as she adjusted her coat collar, as if neatening herself could make the night ahead any cleaner.

“Almost,” she whispered. Then she snapped the purse shut and reached for her coat.

The wind off the river caught her as soon as she stepped outside. It knifed straight through the cheap wool, through the lining, through whatever thin courage she’d pulled on. Snow hadn’t fallen yet, but the air had that wet, mean promise to it. She tucked her chin to her chest and walked anyway.

Latifa stood across the street, watching the neon sign of The Starlight Lounge flicker through the dim winter haze. Her whole body shivered, but it wasn’t just the cold. It wasn’t even fear. It was the shame of it—the knowing, bone-deep kind that burns hotter than frostbite. She wasn’t sure if desperation was making her sell an illusion or if it was her pride, but either way, she was only a few steps from selling it.

She thought 1975 would be the year she turned her life around.

She sighed and stepped off the curb.

Life had other plans.

The door was heavy, and it stuck halfway open due to layers of paint and spilled beer, but once she got it open, the heat hit her like a wet slap. Smoke, stale booze, something sugary from the bar, and that faint electric smell from the colored lights. Music thumped low, not loud enough to drown out drunk men, but enough to make conversations roll together.

As she stepped through the door, she spotted her neighbour, Lila, moving through the haze of smoke and coloured light as if she owned it. Her long auburn hair clung to her shoulders with sweat, glitter catching in the curls. She wore nothing but a sequined thong and heels that looked too tall to walk in, yet somehow she floated—laughing, teasing, draping herself over the men at the bar. Rumour had it she did more than peel off her clothes after midnight, but Latifa pushed the thought aside. Who was she to judge what Lila did to survive? In half an hour, she’d be up on that same stage, shaking what she had for a room full of strangers.

Lila’s eyes flicked over and widened in surprise. “Well, holy hell,” she said, grinning, voice rough from smoke and late nights. “Didn’t think I’d see you in here.”

Latifa shrugged like it was nothing. “Needed work.” If she was being honest with the world and herself, she had spent the whole day struggling with the fact that she had no choices and the desperation that filled her life.

“Don’t we all,” Lila said, rolling her eyes. She leaned in, the glitter on her chest catching the red light. “Garnet’s here. Same as always. Ask him before Mel sees you and starts his ‘I made you’ speech.”

“Is Mel still the manager?”

“Like a roach,” Lila said, then laughed. “You’ll be fine. You still got legs.”

Latifa forced a smile. “We’ll see.”

She headed toward the bar.

Garnet was precisely where she remembered him from the few times she’d been in before—behind the counter, towel over his shoulder, restocking brown bottles into the cooler. He’d gone thicker in the middle, hairline marching backward, but his eyes were the same: tired blue, not unkind.

“Hey,” she said, stopping at the edge of the bar.

He looked up, squinted, then snapped his fingers. “Latifa. Thought you’d left town.”

“Not yet.”

His gaze ran over the coat, the purse she was gripping too tightly, and the way she kept lifting one foot as if the floor were sticky. He didn’t smirk, didn’t leer. He just sighed.

“You sure you wanna be here?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she said. “But I need the money.”

He leaned in. “Mel’s pushing more now. Fewer girls, longer sets. You can still walk out.”

“Can you pay my rent?” she asked, just as quietly.

He huffed a laugh, shook his head. “Didn’t think so.”

He jerked his chin toward the back hallway. “He’s in the office. You remember the way.”

She did.

The hallway hadn’t changed. Same buzzing fluorescent, same scuffed walls, same girl’s giggle from somewhere behind a half-shut door. As she walked, the music from the main room dulled to a throb under the floor.

Mel’s door was half open. He was at his desk, counting something—always counting. He looked up when she knocked once.

“Well, look what the wind blew back,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you they always come back?”

She bit down on the retort. “I need work.”

“You dance?”

“You know I dance.”

He steepled his fingers, studying her. “Stage is slower in winter. We perform three operations, then rotate. If a guy wants private, he talks to me, not you. You get tips. House gets the cut. You don’t start no trouble, I don’t start no trouble. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“You got a suit?”

She lifted her purse a little. “Brought one.”

“Good girl.” He jerked his head toward the dressing room. “You’re third up. Song’s already cued. You remember how to move, you’ll do fine.”

Her throat felt dry. “How much?”

“For the night? Base is twenty.” He said it as if it were generous. “Tips make the rest. Saturday, you can walk out of here with Seventy, easy.”

Seventy. Latifa’s fingers tightened on the purse strap. Seventy meant rent was possible. Seventy meant food that didn’t come out of a can. Seventy meant she didn’t have to call the one man she never wanted to call again.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll take it.”

“Didn’t doubt it,” he said, eyes already back on his paper.

The dressing room was hotter than the bar, full of perfume, hairspray, baby powder, and women’s voices. A radio was playing a commercial too loud. Someone had tacked up a poster of a disco singer with perfect hair and a smile that didn’t know the cold.

Three girls were getting ready. One of them was young, with skin tight over sharp bones, and jumpy eyes. The other two were veterans, moving slowly, as if this was just another Thursday and not a cold night with rent due. One of them nodded at Latifa in recognition; the other didn’t care.

Latifa took the empty corner by the cracked mirror. She set her purse down, pulled out the folded bikini and the boots. On the bright dressing-room table, they looked even cheaper.

She stripped quickly, goosebumps rising over her arms and thighs. The bikini was colder than she expected when it touched her skin, and the elastic pinched where it had lost its stretch. She tied the halter behind her neck, then retied it tighter so it wouldn’t slip.

In the mirror, she examined herself the way men would: flat stomach, yes; hips, good enough; breasts — not as perky as they’d been at nineteen, but still there. She sucked in a breath, arched her back, and watched the light catch the nylon. Almost.

The boots took longer. The left zipper stuck; she yanked, swore under her breath, then smoothed the vinyl over her calf. Standing in them, she was three inches taller and somehow three inches more exposed.

Lila appeared in the doorway, still half-naked, still smiling like this was a party. “See?” she said. “Still got it.”

“Don’t start,” Latifa muttered.

Lila stepped in close and fixed one strap for her, fingers surprisingly gentle. “First one’s the worst,” she said. “After that, it’s just music.”

“Or it’s not,” Latifa said.

“Or it’s not,” Lila agreed. “But you walk out of here with bills in your bra, you forget the bad parts faster.” She tipped her chin toward the stage. “You’re after Kitty. Mel said Make it slow. They like it slow when it’s cold.”

“Of course they do,” Latifa said.

Lila grinned and flounced back out.

From behind the curtain, the stage looked enormous, even though she knew it wasn’t. Just a raised platform, a brass pole that had lost most of its shine, one table of regulars up close, another row of bored men farther back, and the bar along the wall where Garnet kept wiping the same spot.

The music changed. Kitty came offstage, cheeks flushed, breath coming fast. She was clutching her robe closed with one hand and her tips with the other.

“How was it?” Latifa asked, stupidly.

Kitty shrugged. “Cold,” she said, and disappeared into the dressing room.

Mel’s voice came low from the side. “You ready?”

No.

“Yes,” she said.

He smirked, leaning toward the mic. “Alright, boys, warm yourselves up—got a familiar face back with us tonight. Give a welcome to… Velvet.”

The name hit her like a slap. She hadn’t said it out loud in months. It wasn’t hers, not really—it was something Mel made up one night when he said ‘Latifa sounds too foreign, too real.’

Velvet was who they came to see.

She was just the girl underneath.

For a split second, she froze.

Then she walked.

The lights were hotter than she remembered. They washed everything in red and gold, turning her brown skin to something glossy and unreal. The music was a slow, bass-heavy soul track — not fast enough to fake her way through, which meant every move had to be deliberate.

She started with the simplest thing she knew: hands in her hair, hips rolling slowly from side to side. She didn’t look at the men yet. She looked over them — at the back, at the dark, at nothing. Her body remembered even if her pride didn’t. Arch. Turn. Let the light catch the curve of her thigh. Pivot. Smile, but not the kind that says I like this — the kind that says you wish.

“Yeah, there she is,” one of the regulars called. “Knew she’d be back.”

The shame hit then — hot, high in her chest. They always come back. Mel’s words. Her mother’s words. The whole damn world’s words.

She swallowed it.

Halfway through the second verse, she let her eyes drop to the front table. Four men. One with a wedding ring. One with hair like Anthony’s, but not his eyes. One too young to be in a place like this. One who stared at her like he was trying to remember where he knew her from.

She ignored them and kept moving.

When it was time, she peeled the top string loose — slow, like she’d seen Lila do it, teasing, never in a rush. A couple of bills appeared on the edge of the stage. She bent for them, making it part of the dance, making it look easy. The bills were crumpled, damp with spilled beer, but money was money.

By the time the song ended, she had a small fan of cash by her heel.

She stood there for a heartbeat after the music stopped, chest rising and falling, lights making sweat shine along her collarbone. The applause wasn’t wild — this wasn’t Montreal — but it was enough. Enough to say: yes, we’ll pay to look at you. Sufficient to say: your mother wasn’t wrong.

She stepped offstage, clutching the bills.

Back in the dressing room, her hands shook, not from cold now — from the crash after the adrenaline. She sat, counted. Two fives. Eight ones. A couple of twos. Someone had even tossed in a quarter, like a joke.

“Seventy-three if you stay ‘til close,” Mel said from the doorway, like he could smell money. “You did good. Little stiff at the start.”

“It’s been a while.”

“Keep it up and you’ll have that rent,” he said, and vanished again.

She stared at the pile in her hand.

Seventy-three dollars wasn’t much to some people. To her, tonight, it was the difference between freezing and not freezing. Between being the girl on the sidewalk and the girl behind plastic-covered windows. Between calling that man and not calling him.

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the two quarters her mother had given her. Held them in one hand, the crumpled bills in the other.

Two bits.

Seventy-three dollars.

Her mother had been right about the road.

But she hadn’t been right about the girl.

Latifa slipped the coins back into her pocket, stuffed the money deep into her purse, and looked at herself in the cramped mirror — boots, glitter from Lila still on her shoulder, eyes tired but not empty.

“Not on her,” she murmured. “It’s on me.”

Outside, winter waited. Inside, the music started again.

Author’s Note

This story takes place years before the events of After the Stars Burn Out.

Latifa’s journey begins in cold rooms and flickering neon — the night she learns how survival changes everything.