Casino Queen

This piece is what I call a song scene.  Basically, it’s what I see when I listen to the Asteroid Galaxy Tour’s song The Golden Age

Years before the waves of feet washed the colour from the casino carpet, she stepped out of the lift.  The tight black dress she wore, slit to the hip, was covered in swirling oriental dragons.  The diamond dipped earrings hung heavily on her ears.  A complex chaos of blonde hair framed the smile that melted the room.  Crowds parted as she wandered through the floor, and she had no doubt she left adoration in her wake.

She ordered an expensive sounding chardonnay from a familiar waitress beside the roulette table.  She wielded this graceful scepter as she held court over the long velvet table and the spinning wheel.  The players vied for her attention, until she chose a lucky loser with the good sense to bet big.  Pressed to his arm, she shone as his luck and his chips dwindled.

When her chosen champion was finished losing, she left the half-finished wine flute on the buffer, a cherry-red kiss on its rim as memorandum of her presence.  She walked through the lounge to a door you had to know to notice, and slipped into her narrow dressing room.  In the halo of the mirror, she flirted with herself, raking mascara through her long lashes, blowing kisses into wonderland.  When she was finally satisfied, she drifted into the backstage hallway, an unglamorous affair, more like an abandoned school than a star’s greenroom, to await the start of her simple show.

The man behind the piano had brilliant fingers, but when she stepped into view, he was forgotten.  She rasped smoky lust songs.  The faithful worshiped her, the men who came every night while they were in the city.  Curious heads poked into the room, and found a set.  She knew not a single one, and she adored every last one of them.  She worshiped their worship, and they warmed her to the core.

The next afternoon, a lucky winner in a rented convertible pulled up before the casino lobby.  She floated down the lift from her suite.  Her head was wrapped in a beige scarf, her eyes shaded by thick sunglasses, her form unhidden in the wrap of a trench coat.  The only soul brave enough to speak to her after her set held open the car door, and she slipped in, unnoticed by a public that wouldn’t recognize her.

They headed off the strip, to a movie theatre playing a film in which she was a minor background player.  He pretended she was the star she felt she should be, and she pretended he was more than a handsome face with a small measure of caramel coated charm.  They left to the falling rain.  He fumbled to resecure the roof while she clung to the doorway under the marque.  She laughed and smiled at the jeweled city.  He was certain he had hit the jackpot.

At the hotel, she graced him with a quick kiss before she disappointed him.  She headed back into the cacophonous din of her delusion, happy and lost in the artifice of the world she built.

Published in: on November 14, 2012 at 6:04 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Statuesque

 

What does statuesque mean?  It should mean her, standing out on the balcony of our hotel room.  In just a pair of black panties, she smokes just outside the sliding door, to keep the smoke detector from wailing.  Her back is arched, and nothing about her moves, apart from her lips.  She breaths tendrils of beauty up into the night, and while I dread the taste, I’m enchanted by the dissipating swirls.

She looks like marble.  It’s not just her pale skin, brushed by the pale halogen lights from the city below, sneaking up to the twentieth floor to caress her.  The stars are hiding under the heavy clouds that threaten to weep, so only the angry manmade glows illuminate her.

She looks like marble.  She looks hard, immobile. 

She looks cold.  Her touch would sap the warmth inside.  For the moment, all I want is to watch her, bare to the world and uncaring.  Pale, naked, and too powerful for the night to touch, to diminish.  I want to watch her breath fire.

The clock, the ancient relic, clicks.  It draws my attention, a cocked gun, as every digit of 2:59 flips over to 3:00. 

I want it to be 3:00 forever.

The door slides open.  The nitrogen smell of the coming rain mixes with her nicotine poison.  She’s staring at me, and there’s a violence in her eyes, a terrible hunger.  I just want to watch her smoke.  I have no more need of her cold hands, of the ashy taste of her lips.

She comes no closer, the wrath in her eyes held back by marble of her flesh.  They smoulder, those eyes, catching the red of that alarm clock.  She stands there, frozen watching me.  She is waiting.

I hear the rain drop, the one that hits the small of her back.  The one that melts her, that dilutes the anger in her eyes.  It saps her hunger, and now she is a supplicant for warmth.

Already, I miss what she was.

What does statuesque mean?  It should have meant her.

Published in: on March 18, 2011 at 12:00 pm  Comments (1)  
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