The Tempest

She lay across the couch as if posing for a cover shot.

Ms. December 1997?

The couch a pitch black; her dress a crimson red and her eyes…low, casual, potent and clear

Like deep brown chandeliers hanging from a clean white roof.

She touched her long, curly red hair with a slender hand,

Almost holding it to her lips in a yawn.

She laughed instead, bold, stellar teeth and four fang-like projections glowed.

She closed her mouth quickly and her secret was hidden again.

The men lounging in an arc around her were mesmerized ---by the air of the lust

That surrounded her, draping like folds of silk off her smooth skin...

The conversation died as they began to choke, fighting desperately to find the correct words.

Closing her eyes, she pulled on her cigarette,

Slowly, tastefully, enjoying the very tar that gathered in her lungs.

And she breathed out - a field of roses rushed at the men as the smoke filled the tiny booth.

And, slowly, each fell into a trance-like state.

She laughed again. Was she mocking those defenseless creatures?

Those brutes?

With her voice that washed over their ears like champagne?

Maybe, but it did not matter after that.

Drunk with the desire that shrouded her slender body, the men were blinded.

Intoxicated by the glow of her bare skin and captivated by those thick, red lips…

She pulled on the cigarette once more, filling the drunken men’s noses with jasmine and daises

And then, she tossed the lit cigarette into a glass of whiskey.

Flames gently rolled around in the glass, casting long shadows on the bearded faces.

Like a plague, the smoke quickly filled the booth.

The frozen men stared at the empty couch.

Soon, fingers and hairs were melting like wax as the scent of jasmine

And long bubbles of red hair clicked on hot stiletto heels and out of the booth.