Midsummer Night

The Man who is not. The boy was frail and delicate—something borrowed and off kilter. The Man who is not was the boy who was never there. She was the boy who was something else. I am the Woman I have always been. An immaterial girl thriving in a material world. Her eyes are celestial. Her movements are uncanny. Her shape is cherubic. 

A feast for the senses who is delightful with her tongue. She welcomes Me with inviting lips. Her name is Eve. She dances in the Garden of Good and Evil. She dances with the Devil. We strike a bargain on the dance floor, sealing our agreement with idle hands. Loose lips lift my short skirt, Eve leads Satan to temptation. It is She who corrupts me. I exist as an excuse.

Eve said she likes them older: well financed, well practiced, well seasoned, well mannered. She saw, she approached. Target acquired and apprehended. We came, after you mademoiselle. I devoured Her—the patient beast enjoys the most satisfying meals. Eve may have been on her knees. Her mouth may have been occupied. We may have been caught.

The officer shines a flashlight in our direction. Eve towers in her heels, composing herself while wiping saliva from her lips. She pushes up her bosom, shortens her skirt and saunter towards the State without fear. Persuasive voice. Dandelion hair. Charcoal eyes. Cold blood. Crisis averted.