The streetlights buzzed like dying flies and the asphalt held the heat of the day long into the evening, moving hips swaying to some rhythm only she could hear my fingers trailing her thighs, long and lean like a crooked wench
but she a was business man lunch eating me alive with Bocephus eyes lusting for the onion in my Dirty Martini, “this isn’t a tango, darling “I muttered into her neck, tasting salt and rebellion “its a goddamn dirge”
her dry Lauren Bacall laughter curled around me like smoke
from a cheap cigarette, harsh, and cold, lingering where it shouldn’t, she breathed against my jaw, her teeth grazing skin just enough to make my pulse stutter
the streetlights flickered above us, casting her face in jagged shadows the kind that made her look less like a woman and more like something carved from obsidian, beautiful, dangerous, impossible to hold
my fingers tightened around hers, the bones shifting like dice
as the night air clung to us, thick as sin, and the city around us pulsed, a beast breathing slow and heavy in the dark. “Do you want to dance with me in the still of the night”
