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and the buzzer short-circuits like a mad trumpet in the wires, brrrrap-brrrrap-brrrrap, amplified blasts ripping down the quiet hallway, salvo after salvo bursting into the black night outside, echoing off the peeling walls.

and she’s there, right on time, bang on the dot, and his gut twists with that old primal howl for love and want and flesh, racing headlong to the door, feet slamming the floorboards, heart pounding like a bop drum in the chest.

wine and song.

now she’s talking freemasons, rolling it out like she’s sitting at the big table, silent partner in the whole damn conspiracy of mankind, eyes shining with the secret glow,

and he pours the red deep into the glasses, dark as blood, while she bends over the coffee table, cuts three perfect white lines on the cover of poetry weekly, that high-gloss rag with E.E. Cummings staring out from the front like a wild saint, lower-case god grinning at the madness.

laughing, snorting, surging —

eyes wide, noses burning, the rush hitting like a freight train out of the nowhere night, bodies electric, souls leaping into the jazz of it all, the room spinning slow and fast at once, wine spilling on the pages, words dissolving into the powder, and everything alive, everything roaring, everything gone.

large drunken thighs in stripy tights and boots, money folded and slipped warm into her hand for one sweet hour of love gone wild in the candlelight.

black fishnet stockings,
a cold, alabaster smile,
chasing the dragon.