you are only as good as your best distraction

the streets are coarse,
littered with short-haired women in creamy coats,
skin like jellyfish.  
their eyes are the worst,
rimmed with the same rusted colour
as the spit that comes from their mouths
as they cast their iron hooks:
quiet smiles, snake words.

there is no one safe, least of all me.  
my bones show, and the moon smiles down on me
as i press my knuckles into my shoulder blades,
pull fingers through my hair.  
i totter into a quiet bar,
a strange alien bunch of silk and foamy pearls.  
the room is profoundly comforting,
smoke rising in the dim light,
the ceaseless moans of a cello in the corner.  
i make pitiful French-sounding cooing noises at the bartender
as i point to a bottle of port that i want.
he pours wordlessly, and i gaze into the amazingly dark wine,
maroon ocean,
slut red,
so thick it leaves a red film in the glass
after i have let it burn a gracious path down my similarly coloured throat.

a few hours later, i find myself staring at my hands,
peculiar white doves that hunch over on themselves,
turning mottled purple or pink, as if strangled.  
i lift my thighs and slide my hands beneath them,
squashing the little monsters.
spidery lashes dance over the limpid eyes that have glittered at me
from a chair in the corner all night.
brilliant eyes, dark brown and sweet, yet somehow closed off from the public,
promising things,
showing only a little bit of emotion, a peek.  
tease show.  
these eyes produce a gaze that coats me liberally;
i almost can feel my skin growing cold
in the shine of those eyes.  
finally, i look.  

instead of glancing surreptitiously,
i lean in their direction, joints groaning,
muscles slow and reacting like an agitated snake.  
my eyes meet hers with a kind of deliberateness that only comes
through blind courage
or complete drunkenness.  
a kind of truthfulness, a bizarre connection.

she gets up as quickly as if i had shot her,
her coat slipping from shoulders, shining in the dim light,
naked skin, freckled.
grasping my hand in hers, she smiles.
i reach up and touch her hair, transfixed.  

it is short, cut like a man's—only longer,
faerie-like, and precisely the colour of my port.  

we leave the bar, snuffing out the soul of the place as we run,
dresses ensnaring our ankles.  
she is exciting, nameless, and extravagant.  
as bells tongue the late hour,
i am the girl on her arm, the girl of this moment,
the girl of the night, a small lover.  

crushing me and my weird silk dress into the passenger seat of her little car,
she tells me her name.  
she leans across me, clicks my seatbelt in place
and those eyes meet mine,
glowing and multicoloured, somehow three-dimensional
as lamplight climbs into the brown and explodes
something as common as brown into a thick-petaled amber orchid,
giant violets,

daisies
kept in a sunless room.  there are freckles on her nose.

she smiles wickedly and slams the door,
strides around to the driver's side, gets in,
and starts the car with a loud grumbling sound.  
shadows wither beneath the headlights as she goes,
and a part of me believes that they only die because of her.
while time softens and slows in the car,
between guessable destinations, i say her name in my mind,
letting the syllables collide, weird and foreign.

soon she pulls me from the car by the hand, leading me through a little garden,
into a house.  
the scent of the house is dark and inviting—like cherries and figs,
burning incense,
something somehow dangerous
despite the sweet feminine overtone.
"so…" i begin,
eyes dusting over impressive armchairs in the living room,
a miniscule kitchen with coloured windows, black and white tile,
dark cherry wood floor in the hall and up the tiny, rickety stairs.  
"so, Vincentia," i finally say, looking to her, somewhat bemused.  

she smirks at my tone, then slowly says,
"you could always…"
her smile widens, eyes on fire,
"…call me Vincent."  

i nod.  
Vincent.  
Vincent, the woman.  
Vincent, with red hair
and freckles
and a lipsticked smile that makes her look
as if she will swallow me whole.  
i should be trembling.

no—i should be home,
curling into my bed with drunken sobs,
raking my fingers over my skin for the millionth time,
ending my night
as i end every other night.  

instead, some peculiar bravery got the best of me.  
instead, i am in a little hallway by the stairs
in the house of a woman named

Vincent.

Vincent

removes her shoes and begins to ascend the stairs,
then stops a few stairs up.  she turns to me slowly, tilting her head.  
"who are you?" she asks,
as if i have just barged into her home.  
startled, i take a moment before remembering
that i have not yet told my name.  

"oh," i say,
and the house grows silent.  
she is standing on the stairs,
a woman who is head taller than me,
wine-coloured hair in a sharp pixie cut,
dark eyes,
dark smile,
cream-coloured coat that falls to the floor.  
her silk slip is pale and rippled,
stone thrown in a pond under a milky dusk.

"my name is enid," i say nervously,
and the house swallows the sound like a pill.