Sharon's headlining a show-stopping performance in the promenade lounge aft, to an audience of empty chairs. It's a starless night and the ship is cutting a white line through black water, blacker sky. Sharon salutes the porthole windows where her reflection bows with every gyration of her hips. An audience of one.
Sharon croons to herself, "How could I dance with another, when I saw you standing there?" And so go the hips again. Bedazzled crystal lightning bolts jackknife across Sharon's pelvic bone and when she dances, her hips scatter light across the art deco ceiling. A constellation in motion.
Sharon demands R.E.S.P.E.C.T. from her captive audience: those empty chairs, that mangled reflection. Her tiny white lights bend, refracted across the ceiling while she cha-cha's across the stage, her honeyed warble trailing her.
A passenger drifts by, seats himself in the shadow of a column, melts into a dark corner, but Sharon's eyes dazzle and she turns her moonbeam smile across the room, stars shooting from her hips wile she goes. "Girls just wanna have fun," Sharon's voice catapults to the ceiling, a flaming comet through the atmosphere.
"You can stand under my umbrella-ella-ella ay-ay-ay," proffering a cordless mic from behind her back, Sharon offers her audience of one the chance at a duet. He awkwardly concedes. Two lonely planets caught in Sharon's starry sky, voices melting and splattering to the deck: A cosmic jukebox to serenade an audience of empty chairs.