Brothel

I remember how red your scarf was that evening many years ago in Berlin. Each thread a dense implosion of fiery pigment gleaming in the candle-lit, jazzy, smooth snare-drum mood. Me and you alone in a booth as I scoot my ass inch by inch closer so I can get a whiff of your fragrant black hair teased back into place by a mess of bobby pins, loose strands and all. You smile and tell me to relax as you pour us a couple of glasses of cheap champagne. I straighten my shoulders and loosen my cravat three notches, if that's possible, acting cool like I know what the fuck. Low-tempo slow-mo slow-down every second ticks by like a still life vibrant Cezanne and your tan skin looks so exotic. Jimmy asked me how many fingers I'd give you and I replied my entire hand. He said he'd give you two fingers... he'd cut off two fingers to bang you for a week... well - never mind that, just macho posturing guy-talk. Growing nausea like cancer starts low in my stomach and works it's way up my throat as I raise the flute to my parched lips and drink in your striking eyes with one unsure gulp.