Postcards of Persuasion

I knew it couldn’t last.

She swept towards me, stopping me in a doorway, already knowing my name and having formed a mythology in her mind. Later, seemingly unsatisfied with my consistent lack of eye contact, she pushed my hair out of my eyes, and held my face in place so that my gaze couldn’t escape hers. I was spellbound.

She was a black celebration, in dress, shoes and fingernails, contrasting starkly with her golden hair and flawless porcelain skin. A dark jewel hung from a pendant between her breasts, drawing attention to a form that can only be described as other-worldly. We’ve met for a second time, a result of mutual intrigue. She charms further with her champagne’d sway.

We ring in the new year with a kiss. We shouldn’t be doing this. She tells me in the sober morning that I look like a pirate. I want to be a pirate.

I’m enveloped thickly in J&B as I approach her house late on a steamy February evening. Unable to sleep, intimidated by the impossible beauty of her slumbering shape beside me, I depart just before sunrise, hot wind blowing away the last remnants of the dream on a lengthy walk home.

I knew I couldn’t last.

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