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Amplified sounds from a short-circuiting buzzer echo through a quiet hallway, a salvo of bursts ringing out into the darkness. She’s on time, and his primal craving of love and want races headlong towards the door, wine and song.

Now she talks about the Freemasons as if she’s on the board of directors, a silent partner in the conspiracy of humanity. He pours while she cuts three lines on Poetry Weekly, a magazine with a high gloss cover, EE Cummings on the front.

Laughing, snorting, surging – large drunken thighs in stripy tights and boots, notes exchanged for an hour of love.

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