The musio played low legato, tracing the rhythm beneath her skin. Clinging to her smile with every sip of her gin martini, watching the way she swallows as she clinched the hour before the dawn arriving again—the most desperate hour of the night, the moment when ghosts press closest to the living. Her laugh was too quick, too easy, the way people laugh when they’re alone in public—a performance for no one, or perhaps for someone unseen. Like a summoning sigil. Her fingers lingered, tapping, RSVP, on the mahogany coffin top, attending the haunting rotting sweetly in her wake. As I starred at her good bones. Her fingers stilled on the coffin lid—mid-tap, mid-thought—as if she’d heard me thinking it. The realization, I mean. That she was dead. Not metaphorically, not poetically. Actually cold, actually gone. The martini glass in her other hand fogged with condensation, beading like sweat on skin that hadn’t breathed in days.
Rated for Everyone 
music played legato
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