Michael Tyler
Blood on the Sidewalk
Sam is lying languid on yellow sheets, James will be home tomorrow which leaves little time for new lovers.
Sam reaches up and receives the glass and sips with the merest hint of a grin. I drink from the bottle and look at scars on a wrist, a tattoo marked and bled, bracelet often mislaid.
The tattoo once read, “He possesses heart who knows fear but masters fear: who sees the abyss but sees it with pride.” Sam had nodded as she read and rubbed her index finger across my skin.
Sam leans in for a refill and I note the nape of her neck, newly revealed to the world. I call her a flapper and she replies it was once all the rage and pats the bed saying simply, “Sit with me awhile.”
Audrey Hepburn catches my gaze from across the room, a room I know so well yet see in a light newly revealed. “Scales from the eyes,” I mutter. Sam asks what I said and I reply simply, “Nothing . . . nothing important.”
Jazz is barely audible but speaks softly in the meanwhile. “I am in the pink,” Sam had said when she put it on and I remain bemused.
And James will return and for now Sam is here and I am here and the bottle is half full and Sam teases with a fingertip . . .