Wayne H.W Wolfson
I was having a drink. Faust's. Again, the way every story must begin. Life is made up of daily rituals and totems
I liked the corners. A woman sits by herself. She has an empty glass on either side of her. I spend a few more moments looking. Brown bob cut, pear shaped. Not even the table vultures bother.
Sometimes I like them big. She looks sort of sad. I like this too, sometimes.
From across the room our eyes meet. I smile and it takes her a few minutes to decide I am not mocking her. With a nod I join her for a drink.
Her name is Sabbath, and to say it is like chewing on a sweet flower.
I'm a writer, unpublished. A nobody with a silver swan handled cane.
We go back to her place. She lives on the top floor. The stairs trick me, mating and multiplying with every step
A candle is lit, long shadows put us in a painting.
At first Sabbath just wants me to enjoy myself. I notice the odd way her hair parts on the top of her head. For her to keep going I have to say things. She insists. Not talk dirty, but just let her know that I am enjoying it.
When I finish I open my eyes. She has undressed and is laying next to me biting her bottom lip. She leans forward. We kiss.
Holding my wrists with her hands Sabbath slowly sinks down. The candle is gone. Palms down on my stomach for balance our tempo speeds up. I clasp my hands behind her back. I feel something odd. There is a long echoed note of a horn. I spill into her as she calls my name.
We stay linked, she rests on me until our heat becomes too much.
There is nothing more she wants.
I light a cigarette. She is laying on her side facing the wall. Her back is covered in a series of ivory inlaid keys, like a saxophone.
With her breath one key slowly rises and falls exposing a tiny ridged hole.
"My love is deceptively blues based" she said.
She didn't mention anything about keeping her secret, but I did have to promise to give her something enigmatic to say if I ever write about her.
"Like a modern day Sphinx" she said.
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