about to do some serious blog modifications.

Feel free to unfollow. I’ve been neglecting this pretty fucking badly, it’s time for a change.

Speakeasy.

*I went to Katerina’s last night in Chicago and saw a jazz ensemble play. I’ve been thinking about this scene, which I suppose being the only writer there, only I saw. God, I love the city.

Her hips were dripping with tassels. She tottered on heels rhythmically to sway her flapper dress, which ended just above the knee to reveal delicate porcelain skin.

Champagne, golden. The color complimented a black bob, styled and perfect coming straight from the salon. A cigarette balanced on her lips, stained from the blood red of her lipstick. The kind of color that would stain a man’s lips for weeks, but that could wash off her’s at the end of the evening.

She walked in alone, pulling a black wrap off of her shoulders and revealing long arms ending in delicate hands. The shapelessness of her dress and the tassels lit fire in the imagination of the men at the bar.

The straight cut was most certainly hiding full hips.

The tank-top straps and dip of the neck line accentuated full breasts and rested on elegant collar bones.

Her black bob grazed and kissed her jawline.

Her eyes were momentarily lost in a puff of smoke, still falling from those deep red lips.

The bar was warm with the exhalations of so many patrons. The wooden floor well worn from the dancing shoes of women before her. The walls were a color of rich wine, perhaps the darkest hue in a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. Intoxicating.

The band was positioned in the back, a faded piano was still being played with practiced hands. A woman was crooning as she swayed with the saxophones, her eyes closed. Unaware she was being watched by a man who most certainly would introduce himself after the show.

“You got a real pretty voice,” he might say.

And she would shrug, “Thanks, pal. But I’m not going places with it.”

And she would be right.

She would be crooning at this Chicago speakeasy as long as her cigarette and alcohol tainted vocal chords would allow. 

But the man would go home with her anyway.

By this time, the dame dripping in champagne had finished her cigarette and was readily accepting drinks from a handsome-looking man who was all too familiar with what women could hide with those tassels and bobs. His hands were searching for her blossomed hips, running down her dress. He wasn’t disappointed when his hands came to welcome curves as she lit another cigarette, sharing the lipstick stained smoke with her evening companion.

By this time of night, the saxophone reeds were well played and the pianist’s fingers were loose with music. The singer was a siren, calling even the most weary to the dance floor.

The champagne woman and her companion made their way to the worn wooden floor, his lips were stained with red; but in the dim, smoke-clouded room, every man looked the same to her.

The music picked up tempo with the risen moon and the steady flow of alcohol. She twirled and swayed and dipped low to the floor, tapping the wood and kicking her dress up to reveal the most luscious part of her inner thigh. The man caressed her delicate arms and kissed her neck which the style of her hair had so invitingly exposed. And she taunted him with kisses which left much to be desired in their sweetness and delicate whispers just low enough to be heard under the music.

The dance floor was crowded with such women, but the woman in champagne quickly became a delicacy desired by each and every man in the bar. She was asked to dance time and time again by the smell of alcohol. Accepting each and every time because in the dim, smoke-clouded room, every man looked the same.

The moon was high over the Chicago skyline as the woman in champagne left the speakeasy, which was dying down for the night and sending the lipstick-stained factory workers to their wives.

She put her wrap over her shoulders and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke upward to the grey sky.

The singer had slipped out the back with a handsome, dark-haired man with heavy eyelids who said, “You got a real pretty voice, baby doll.”

And she replied in kind, draining the rest of her glass, “Yeah, but I ain’t going anywhere with it.” And she pulled his collar and kissed him, pressing her eyes closed to the world.

The woman in champagne left alone, back to her apartment to wash the red from her lips.

Second to Music, Always.

My eyes were closing involuntarily, a small blanket draped over me in the darkness. I picked up my phone one more time just to check.

I received a message. I fumbled to type in my password correctly and reply. On the touchscreen. But that nonsensical annoyance has nothing to do with this. It’s simply something I have to change later.

I’m gonna be honest, I couldn’t care less about sex. I’ve always been like that, it used to freak me out when I was younger.

At first, it felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I know exactly why. It’s more than the idiotic sentiment of an attractive teenage girl who walks with her thumb in the top of her shorts (assuming one can tell the top from the bottom) and sighs while biting her lip, “I wish guys would want me for more than sex.”

No, it’s more than that. But not enough to put here.

When I let myself get lost in music, it makes sex about as exciting as bicycle riding. 

You went on to vaguely paint a picture of what happens when you listen to music. Don’t worry, I understand. I’ve watched you listen to music and I know the pleasure you derive from it because I can see it in the way you look at me when it’s playing. I wrote back, on the touchscreen,

I understand, but I understand through writing. For me, it creates a facet of life all its own.

I was too tired to say anything more. And I’m guessing you were, too. And at some point in the darkness, I realized that Music is your mistress. She always has been and always will be. It’s incredibly difficult to fit into my own niche with you when I’m drowning in your own compositions and everything I say is soon drowned out by your own tempestuous records.

But the hell of all this is, I understand. I know that kind of commitment. I married the written word a long time ago. Only, when I’m with you I forget about pens and ink for a while and I put my keyboard to the side.

Last night, when I was with you, I know you had put music to the side for me. At least for a little while. Call me a fool, but I can live for that.

This feels like writing.

Sun in my hair, is that what set it off? Wearing an old t-shirt and jeans rolled to my knees because I decided I couldn’t impress you anymore.

The sun was hot on my shoulders and the back of my neck and through my short hair and in my eyes. I knew my eyes were beautiful in this kind of light and my eyelashes kissed my cheek bones delicately. I hope I looked pretty to you.

I barely hugged you when I left, I don’t know what you were thinking but I know that my mind was racing. I couldn’t press up against you for fear of my fluttering heart giving me away. Again.

I woke up at 3 in the morning to a message: You’re the only one. For me. I love you. Always have. Always will.

It feels different this time, I realized as I pushed through my fever to lay in your arms and kiss you and find the pattern of your eyes again. When I closed my eyes to sleep and you raised yourself on one elbow to watch over me. Because you are mine and I am yours. Your fingers traced the vertebrae near the nape of my neck and I shivered at the welcome touch.

I love you. Always have. Always will.