The Siren's Swan Song

Helene exploded with bubbly laughter and fresh tears as she took the stage for the last time. For nigh on thirty years, she had been the pièce de résistance of the Cabaret Bellissima, crooning, balladeering, and stripping down to lacy frills and sensuous straps that led the eye as handily as the Pied Piper did for mice. She had always been brassy; her hair, her voice, her persona all cocksure with mock bravado. She joked and teased as she recounted yet another story of a failed love affair to the salacious, adoring crowd, who treated the dishy goddess in front of them with mutual respect and stymied wantonness. As her act ramped up with the rapidly increasing tempo, she gyrated savvy hips and ran her fingers through Miss Clairol white blonde hair number fifteen.