Pythia
Amidst old smoke and stale perfume of a broken night, a seraphic voice posed a question in the dark— “Have we spoken?” In the green room, yellow gloves lay on a coffee table. She lit a cigarette, gazed at the fine rain. I took her scent felt her breath. Her nostrils flared — an arabesque veil of smoke drifted into cloudy gray-green eyes. A hot blush came to my cheek. “Your blood is warm.” She forced a laugh, blew a jet from under dark lashes. “I adore Coblenz. K iss me. ” She tasted of tobacco and stale mint. Her bosom swelled, a tremor crossed her face. “Would you like a trip to Greece?” White-velvet breasts. C-section. Painted nails on a cold-hard floor. I woke to a curving figure staring in a mirror — wide-brimmed hat, black-spike heels, cigarette, eye-liner — headlights in the drive, shouts at the front door.