The Oldest Game

She smolders in the corner of the club, her gaze on the young man at the piano, her back to me. I still might have a chance. Cautiously, I start towards her familiar form. She is swaying to the haunting notes that the pianist’s long fingers are coaxing out of the instrument.

“What do I inspire?”

The words implode in my head, just as the scent washes over me. I’m caught. The perfume is the same as always, overwhelming and heady, bringing back the memories which are painfully uncoiling in my mind.

Her skin is golden silk, white teeth tear into the flesh of the fruit that is plucked too soon from the tree.

My hand is on his shoulder, my brother turns with a welcoming smile and I grunt as I swing the mallet.

I hear the heavy clink of silver coins as she counts them into my damp palms, red lips curve into a grin.

“Lust.” I hiss in answer, doubled over in pain and frustrated that once again she has the upper hand. I shake my head to clear it. She smells of sandalwood and smoke, black pepper and dying roses. The boy at the piano plays the final notes of his song, and notices her. They always do.

She winks at me, and draws the lighter out of one pocket, her cigarettes out of the other.

“Not tonight Mike.”

It’s as if she’s whispering directly into my ear, that hot breath, the flick of a forked tongue rasping against my neck. I watch as she glides up to the doomed soul, who’s smiling at the gorgeous red head in the black velvet dress. Maybe he has a moment of hesitation as he catches the faint hint of sulfur, or the odor of decay, but then her mouth is on his.