The Barreness

Tonight she watches. Legs crossed, head cocked, a bemused smile on her lips. A softly fuming cigarette at her fingertips. The taste of vodka.

The sun has barely shaken its veil of gin and jazz. It struggles above the horizon, announcing its distaste with an angry spray of crimson and gold. The city is aflame, the end of her cigarette blends into the morning sky.

She enjoys a slow seduction. A rhythm that swells and retreats with the quickening and softening of heartbeats. The pulse of an evening. This one was a child, really. A man in years only. Full of his own estimations. He was ripe for instruction.

His retreating footsteps beat a rhythm and she sings to it softly, tracing a line from hip to breast with her fingertips. His favorite bit of her, he says. Brief, fleeting, fervent, she loves him in three hour intervals that begin and end with the rhythm of steps. In one direction and then in the other.