She blinks at you from across the room
Unsure, you move to a corner table
You ask about film
The most predictable subject of all
It's good
With a quiet rasp settled in the back of her throat
Darting eyes
Slivered retractions of fingertips
Hold
It's a command, almost
Bringing a stack of books, they're left in front of you
You're grateful and surprised
A turn of the shoulder and she's gone
Night falls and you're reminded you need rest
You're approached by her on the way to your car
Drunk, but concerned, you listen for now
Shuffled into a long drive is all you can remember
When your eyes glaze back to the scenery
You're in a gray slate parking garage
A table laid before you
It won't hurt that much she says
You see a syringe, a box, shreds of paper
An idle black electronic device sitting in front
You barely stand
Static from a TV is noticed
But across the street through smudged windows
There's nothing in it she says
A belt is tied around your right bicep
Your arm becomes a veined map
A piece of paper appears
You grasp and write 7-0-0-1 and 2-9-6-4
Smoke settles within your midst
Hums and tragedy fill your thoughts
You don't know if this is you