THE LAST DANCE
Mrs Eze, the oldest, was fanning herself with a silk handkerchief that probably cost more than Zara's rent.
"Sorry," Zara said, the smile snapping back into place like a mask she had worn so long it had become her face. "I was thinking about choreography. Shall we try again?"
They tried again. The waltz was simple, elegant, safe. Three steps forward, three steps back. A box. A cage with music. Zara had spent five years teaching wealthy widows how to move inside boxes because it was easier than explaining why she could not leave her own. The music swelled, a tinny recording of Strauss from a speaker that had seen better decades. She counted under her breath—one two three, one two three—and gu