The Devil in the Flesh

she couldn't float her pointed little brown-tipped stick
on the tepid water of a completely full bathtub.
i watched her struggle for an hour while i sipped Russian Vodka
flavored with very ripe yellow peaches earlier picked from a
neighbor's tree, the skins removed with a sharp knife and
left for two weeks quartered inside a large Mason jar.
she wasn't interested in deeper conversation and had no
curiosity for my home made concoction, devoting herself
entirely to delving into the silly supernatural of uncertainty,
splashing and protesting and repeating "Yes, yes, I know."
also, she was smoking opium.
her wet hands would occasionally
slide each fingertip across a dry bath towel.
the nails were painted purple,
as were her full lips which parted when she furrowed her brows.
before falling under the spell of her latest efforts, i was sitting next to
Raymond Radiguet in a small anteroom indulging in alcohol and
bouts of artistic martyrdom.  we ended up drinking a bottle of whisky and a
bottle of gin before i mentioned anything about Vodka and
only as a last resort, to stop the girl from leaving our company with her little
stick.  it was too late.  she stood confidently.
Raymond and i were both infatuated with her ass and allowed our eyes
to follow her movements when she shattered our repose by moving
abruptly to leave the room.
his health was deteriorating so i was instantly chosen to rush by
her side.
even in my weakened condition, i opened the door for her to pass as
she took her leave.
i took my Vodka and a glass.
i might have hallucinated, but we ended up in a room with a completely
full bathtub.
try as she might, she couldn't float her pointed little brown-tipped stick
and i never saw Raymond again.