We found the table overcrowded with empty wine glasses, smudged with lipstick and fogged with mid-sip laughter,
You sat across from me, staring disinterested at the bustling table, a drunken lot of babbling, over-dressed, under-clothed women. They were a swarm, a cluster of buzzing worker bees enjoying a loose night in a filthy bar.
Like the good lady I am, I crossed my legs and watched the purse of your lips relax into a grin. I was ******* down the champagne, sick with envy for the lipstick that clung to your pout and furious at the curtain of caramel hair, begging my fingers to smooth the knots and then mess it all up again.
When the table cleared, and we were left, calling cabs in the reaches of dawn, you stole glances at my jewelry and the jade of my irises. They absorbed your aura as you strode clumsily towards the blue taxi, while I was busy imagining what your name might be if you thought my dress was pretty, or if you thought my perfume would taste like berries if you kissed it off my neck, your heels had clacked all the way to the street. and maybe it was the curves under your silk purple dress, or the smell of spilt wine on my black one, or perhaps a combination of both, that led to my overactive imagination, or maybe you put them in my head when you hesitated at the door of the cab before beckoning me over and pulling me in beside you onto the cold leather and your lavender fabric where your perfume permeated the backseat.