He paid the money
at the end of a dark hall,
never finding the eyes belonging to the smoky voice
and garish purple glitter-flaked nails.
He grabbed his five from the twenty
and neatly slid it back into his wallet -
wallet slipped into a tight back pocket.
Pushing aside a black velvet curtain,
he let his eyes travel over the heads
of patrons come for the look, the show,
the want, the need, the fantasy, the high -
of men and women looking to ride the night
on three watered-down drinks and desire.

He sauntered through glances round
gold lament tables, with candles gyrating
in red polygonal bowls, and littered
with green bills, a down payment on wishes.
At a lone table, lonesome chair sticky sweet,
dark corner, he sat. He shook his hands at his wrists.
The waitress shimmied up close to his face,
and flirted her body and smile
for his first lazy gin and tonic.
He mused over her sweet perfume.
As she turned her back he caught sight
of broken veins running down her long legs.

He waited.
He waits.

He tilts his chair against a purple wall
and listens to the din
of anticipation swilling their highs
in laughter and dirty jokes.
He listens to the sighs of lovers who should walk out the door.
The heat of a well-placed intermission
keeps a running tab on every thirst.
His waitress slips down into his lap
as she slides a drink across to the end of the table, and he tips
generously for her token act.
He drinks slowly, spitting the ice
back into the glass, waiting
for the lights to dim,
the spectators to inhale five seconds of silence.

The evening's star brightens the runway.
She struts too hard to the pumped in music,
but she kills with her silver stilettos.
She sways, she swings, she plays, she slinks
down the lights to her lovers who cannot
touch her, but she moves as if their hands
were a private pleasure alone with her all night.
Spongy grins toss back drinks as wet lips
call her into their phantasm, and
she comes to the party dressed only in hunger, and
everyone eats at her table,
every tongue twists tonight.

He watches
tasting only the end of the world,
and when she sweeps her tangled hair off her shoulders,
he remembers the mole at the nape of her neck
and the small arch of her back in love, and
the light left on through the night.
He pays the waitress
for two watered-down gin and tonics he never wanted,
and the girl slips again into his lap,
whispering into his ear.
He feels the warmth of her breath,
catches the scent
of the cigarette smoked on a break.
Throwing his chair back against the wall
he makes his way through limbs
writhing and laughter baying at his angel.
He wants to look back,
God he wants to look back.

He wants to turn back,
but he won't.

copyright jeannerene