The Entertainer

A circle of people surround the scene, scrutinizing intently, or rather, for most, simply feeding their personal curiosities. As people move past, some are drawn to the circle like a magnet, while others just float right by. I am somewhere in between. There’s a place I must go but my eyes also can’t help but be a servant to my curious mind. My eyes dance back and forth between what’s in front of me and the scene: a knife stuck right through a woman’s ribcage in the middle of the mall. A gruesome sight, yet seeming to bring people some delight. Else, why would the people not look away. It seems the perpetrator has somehow escaped.

I slip through the crowds and dash to the parking lot. I have a date with a woman I recently met through a friend. Before arriving at the restaurant, I stopped here at the mall to grab a quick gift, a small gesture I find to be meaningful in our meaningless world. Who could’ve guessed what I was to witness?

The date venue is a compact Chinese hand-pulled noodles restaurant that has been around for decades. The exterior is run-down; the light of the storefront sign is struggling to make itself seen, jousting with the lamp post at the edge of the sidewalk for recognition. The sign winks a few times inviting me to come in.

The interior is a contrast to its outside. Clean, well-kept, and deceptively spacious. The space was decorated with traditional chinese ornaments from body-sized ceramic pots to red lanterns hanging down from wooden joists. The air smells of chilli oil and ginger. The lighting was amber and created a rather soothing atmosphere. A place for secrets to dig their way out of the graves. Sitting near the front of the restaurant was Sydney. 

Sydney has a chiseled face with strongly defined cheekbones. Her almond eyes are piercing, like she’s examining a subject. Despite this, her handsome face displays a youthful expression that could light up every room. She is wearing a pine green overall with a black sweatshirt underneath. Upon seeing me, she smiles sheepishly.

“Have you been waiting long?” I asked politely, with a hint of guilt from making her wait. My fingers are fidgeting with nervousness.

“Not at all,” she responds, almost too quickly. Did she know I was going to say that? She knots her hands behind her back and stands up besides me. Her perfume smells of sandalwood, perfectly in theme with her outfit for the date. With the same sheepish smile, she continues “gave me some time to calm my racing nerves. Let’s head in shall we?”

The waiter leads us to a table tucked against the far wall, half hidden behind a bamboo partition. The menus are thin and laminated, the corners curled. Sydney orders without even glancing at hers. Hand-pulled beef noodles, extra chili oil, she orders and smiles when she notices me hesitating. “You can always tell how good a place is by their simplest dish,” she said. “You?”

I choose the same, mostly to avoid sounding indecisive.

While we waited, she pours tea into two small porcelain cups. Steam curls between us, a sweet fragrance and ghost-white. “So,” she said, “what kept you before the date?”

Her tone is light, but her eyes are fixed on me like a tightened screw.

“Just stopped by the mall,” I say, “needed to pick up something.”

Her brows arch slightly. “Ah, the mall. I heard something happened there tonight. Police cars, sirens. You didn’t see any of that?”

I let out a short laugh that sounds rehearsed even to me. “No, I must've missed it. I was in quite a hurry to get here on time. Wouldn’t want to let a princess like you wait for too long.”

She nodded with a forced smile, still watching. The boiling tea between us continues to divide us with the grey curtains it produces. A slight wall of safety.

The noodles arrived in large, steaming bowls. The smell of chili oil hung heavy, making my eyes sting. Sydney picked up her chopsticks and began twirling them with an odd grace. She’s clearly been here one too many times. Never once did she break eye contact with me “So, what do you do?” I asked, hoping to redirect.

“Work,” she said vaguely. “Long hours. You could say I study people.”

“Ah! A Psychologist?”

She smiled at that, but didn’t answer. Instead, she asked, “And you? What’s your story?”

“I… perform,” I answer. “Entertainment. Small crowds mostly. Almost like a street performance.”

Her eyes lit up with a strange amusement. “Ah, a performer. That explains the composure.” She leaned back, sipping her tea. “You must be good at reading an audience.”

“Oh please, you flatter me. No better than you at reading people, I am sure.” I responded embarrassed.

“By the way, you got something on your cuffs. The noodles can easily dirty your clothes.” She points out. A small smirk appears on her face as she continues to stare right into my eyes.

Confused, I scanned the location of interest. There, drops of red sprayed across the cuffs of my dress shirt. I panic, did she notice this the whole time? “The chilli oil splashes around a lot, ay?”

The conversation drifted to more trivial things, the city’s traffic, the restaurant’s stubbornly flickering sign, our silly hobbies, and our family history. She asked where I’d lived before, whether I liked crowded places, if I preferred working alone. Each query felt casual but angled, as if she were taking notes.

When the bill came, she insisted on splitting it. “Fair is fair,” she said. Her tone was cheerful again, though her eyes had softened into something thoughtful.

Outside, the air was cooler. She adjusted her bag strap and looked up at me. “Thanks for dinner. We should do this again.”

I nodded, almost forgetting to breathe as she smiled, polite and kind. Then she walked to her car. I followed suit and walked to mine.

She knows. Why else would she incessantly smile like that? I look normal. I checked in the car mirror. The way her eyes continue to examine me, the way she responds so effortlessly, and the way she keeps probing about what I did before arriving at the date. I was careless with my clothing; this is the first time this happened. I looked ahead, my eyes trailing Sydney’s vehicle. Her car took a left turn. But the way to her house should be to the right. The police station is to the left.

Adrenaline shocks my body. I cover my face with a mask and put on a pair of sunglasses because the lamp posts are too bright for my eyes. Without hesitation, I followed her car. Slowly and sneakily. She shouldn’t know which car was mine; I never divulged that information. She’s reaching the police station now. She’s slowing down. A marching band tramples across my heart, blasting their sounds in my ear drums. Her car stops. I wait for her to get out.

Seconds pass by but she stays put in her car. I regain a small resemblance of calmness and quickly realize we are at a traffic light. Perhaps, she just wanted to take a detour. Seconds followed by seconds, why is the traffic light so everlasting so late at night. Not a single soul is in sight except the two cars.

The light finally shifts to green. Her car inches forward, the red taillights blinking like a heartbeat, steady, then sudden. I let three cars slip between us. Every sound feels amplified, the friction between the rolling tires and the road, the rattle of a loose bottle in the backseat, the shallow drag of my own breath.

Sydney drives cautiously, almost deliberately. She’s not speeding, not lost. She knows exactly where she’s going. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel, the leather warm from my grip. For a fleeting second, I wonder if she’s testing me, if she somehow knows I’m behind her.

Streetlights streak over her car, at times painting her silhouette in quick, golden flashes. The neighborhood grows quieter, more residential. Houses line the street, each window a possible pair of watching eyes. She turns right this time, finally, toward her house. I’ve accidentally passed by this place before. I do not turn with her and park just before the intersection.

I wait until her porch light flickers on before stepping out. The night air bites against my skin, sharp and metallic. I keep to the shadows, tracing the curve of her fence until I reach the edge of her yard. The windows glow faintly, a warm, yellow invitation against the cool dark, just like the Chinese restaurant.

I hold a small box in my hand, its ribbon slightly frayed from being shoved into my coat pocket. It’s harmless, ordinary. The gift I worked so hard for, meant to look thoughtful, casual. A token of good manners, that’s all.

I ring the doorbell once. A pause, then footsteps approach.

The door opens. Sydney stands there, still in the same overalls, a cardigan now wrapped loosely over her shoulders. Her eyes widened in surprise, though not quite alarmed. “Hey… couldn’t get enough of me?”

I force a smile beneath the mask of calm I’ve been practicing all night. “I, uh—forgot to give you this.” I hold out the box. “Just something small. Didn’t want to seem rude.”

She hesitates for only a second before taking it. “You didn’t have to.” She looks past me briefly, as if checking the quiet street, then back. “You might as well come in. It's cold out.”

Inside, her home is neat, structured. Everything in its right place. A record player hums softly from the corner, the delicate strings of a violin whispering through the air. Standing by the coffee table, she opens the box with caution. Inside, a vintage Evaporating Cats bracelet that isn’t sold anymore (after the band disbanded). One can barely find it on Ebay, and if it’s there, it is for a ridiculous price. She was ecstatic. His diligence for the past few weeks have paid off.

“Sit,” she says, moving toward the record player. “I was just about to put something on, do you like classical music?”

“I don’t mind it,” I reply. The words feel strange in my mouth. A sudden calmness rushes over me, just like when I’m on stage. This time no audience is here to watch. Sydney will get the full interactive experience.

She changes the record. The soft crackle fills the silence before the orchestra blooms again, strings, brass, the faint waltz of something old, intense, and haunting.

Sydney sits across from me, crossing one leg over the other. “So,” she says, almost casually, “about my job, you asked earlier.”

I nod, though I don’t remember asking.

“I’m a detective,” she says. “Homicide division, technically. Been working a tough one lately.”

“Oh?” My throat tightens.

“Yeah. Serial case,” she says. “Someone’s been targeting people in malls. Strange pattern, no clear motive, just… precision. Almost like they’re rehearsing something. Every time, a straight lethal stab. Somehow, their victims never make a noise. They perform it like a surgeon, quick and painless.”

Her gaze lingers on me for a moment too long, then shifts to the bracelet in her hand. “Have you ever heard about anything like that?”

I shake my head slowly, forcing my hands to stay still. “Can’t say I have.”

The music swells, filling the room with violins that sound almost like screams beneath the melody. She smiles faintly, her expression unreadable. We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. The quiet humming of the air conditioner drowned out by the screaming strings. If not for the sounds, one would easily imagine that this was a photo.

“I’m thirsty, do you have something to drink?” I asked, making an excuse to start the show. My body relaxes and the tension of waiting dissipates.

“Of course, what would you like? I have soft drinks and even some liquor if you want to indulge.” She smiles softly, in sharp contrast with her investigative eyes.

“A sprite would do wonders.”

She stood up and walked out of the room, her phone still on the coffee table. With a few moments of silence, I steeled my composure. It is not like me to perform twice in a day. From my pocket I pulled out my instrument. Ready to join in with the orchestra blasting through the air.

The sound of liquid falling into a cup plays from outside the room, adding to the ensemble. Then, footsteps. The closing of a door. Then, more footsteps. Oh, what great percussion does this exotic piece have.

Sydney enters the room with a cup of sprite in her hand, oblivious to the performance she’s about to receive. She walks closer. And closer. Her examining eyes now look comforting. They are but the eyes of the usual onlookers, the usual audience I perform for everyday. She finally arrives next to me. And there, I played my note. Just one, sharp and precise, just like the cymbals. I do my due diligence to soften the resonance, one hand over the audience’s mouth. The cup falls to the floor. The sprite sizzles, adding a backdrop of rain over the already pretty symphony. The curtain closes. The show ends.

The applause is quiet tonight. But it’s okay, for the first time, I performed with classical music playing in the background. I should add this to one of my future sketches next time.