Queen of Daggers

At first glance Hollow Tree Lane appears to be a common street. Not unlike the many roads that litter the landscape in this town of Beans. To the hip, a common road is the correct assumption, but for the hep, an entirely different assumption leads to the truth.

When the sun falls into the horizon, you can walk down the right stairwell and find a door marketed with a Queen of Harts.

Behind that door is a smoke filled room. The bulbs in the light sockets cast an eerie glow over the room. Half-circle, green felt tables swirl a vortex of greed. Currency changes hands at the toss of the dice. Action set to the tune of a sultry black haired beauty.

Her voice hits you like a slap in the face. Her voice is dainty and gruff; forged with the smoke of tobacco. Her body battered into submission from her will. The pain in her voice is vivid in tone. Beautiful pain, an oxymoron that defies logic with each note issued from her lips.

Her fingers strike the keys with vicious intent. Her long legs, wrapped in black and white stockings, work into a furry of motion. Her bare feet work the piano’s pedals, like a racer in the Indy 500. Her torso straddles the chair in the throws of musical passion.

Two cards in my hand, three cards on the felt and my eyes should be on either set. There is a fair bit of logic my eyes can’t comprehend. Unadulterated passion in the spot light becomes a subject of interest. True love takes place in the den of sin every night, two shows a night. My eyes are hypnotized by her. My mind wanders back in time to the morning I work up besides her.

The night before my intent was to sleep on the couch. Intentions sometimes do not pan out. She casually gave invitation to the mattress. I tried to play it poker face and still wonder if my deception hid the joy. The events of the night before would stop any physical intimacy. She sat on the porch chain-smoking cigarettes. I only need to be close to an open window to hear the pitch in her laughter. Her eyes, doe wide, sparkled to attract the attention of the Sea Captain as he regaled the audience with stories of his deep blue mistress. Our night in bed was meant for another man, yet I relished in the feel of her body.

When morning came all was peaceful. When my eyelids parted to take in the light, she was a step ahead of me. Her body bent at the hip sitting in bed. A cigarette hung from her lips. Smoke jets past her pouted red lips. The cigarette filter smeared with her kiss.

I awoke from my slumber. My hands lay on her hips. My fingers find the bumps in her tee shirt. In my slow slumbering mind, shattered from alcohol and cannabis, was slow to recognize origin of the hooks protruding though the cloth.

No sooner had the question past my lips, I already knew the answer. A garter belt is common attire for her and becomes the subject of my stupid question. She knew and I should have known. Wondering hands propelled her body from bed. Hands that silently spoke of want and need, her skills and traits not open for service. An impasse where the barter and trade worked for hay pennies and wooden nickels.

My bedroom door closes followed by my front door with a void of idle chatter to fill the time in-between. My heartbreak manifests in the crash of the door against the jam. The closed door a common goodbye. No need for contact aside from notes spilled out of her piano. Cast away from her island, to watch her make love on the stool and a musical instrument, in ways that I rub a lamps for.

No Dijin found in the copper. Just cards in a rainbow of colors. A folded hand that mirrors a relationship with the angelic creature on the stage. I toss the two cards into the center of the pot. We were both in good intelligence to throw away a bad hands and good intelligence in the pit of my stomach feels like loss.