Molten wax streams down the copper sconce onto the night stand as you light my cigarette and proceed to pour your unholy green trinity of wormwood, fennel, and anise into a fine crystal goblet. Holding the spoon gently to my lips I impudently turn away. I do not touch your concoction until you feign fascination at the trivial anecdote I consider mundane enough to share with you. Several sips later we lean casually into your brocade cushions and in a somewhat dreamier state you attempt to distract me with amorous details of your recent dalliance with a french contemporary artist until I dismiss you with an apathetic yawn. Suddenly, the embodiment of elegance, you smile and arch your brow, once again hold the spoon gently to my lips and in your impossibly delectable rhythm whisper that my hair and fair skin so near stirs your mind with arousal and my supple lips are a crimson darkness that consumes you. Sinking into your far off voice my subconscious begins to vibrate for you. Seduced by the lure of Ravel’s waltz I feel so soft inside and after a few more sips I hallucinate a frightened hare pursued by relentless hunters pounding the snowy banks that rise above our grotto at the foot of the alps where we have slipped into pure hedonism. To spare me the moonless massacre spilling down the mountainside you press me close to your chest and cover my eyes with your tender kiss. Having been saved from what now evades us we succumb to a deep and somber slumber.
art by L’ Rend Fou