She’s Jezebel, Delilah and Aphrodite rolled into one. She is surely dangerous, yet she’s got such a powerful allure.
Her kisses are fervent, like she’s not kissed another like this before. She twists and moans, reaching into the depths of your sorrow and touching that which was discarded ages ago.
You should not be here, you know. You are way out of line and you have everything to lose.
Jezebel, or is it Angella…(Sue? Robinah? Charity?). Whoever it is, whatever name she’s going by today, she knows just what to say and with deadly timing.
“It’s not really serious,” you tell yourself, as you tuck in your shirt hurriedly. The quick trysts she gives you access to are just that: trysts. They are not meant to be remembered.
But you cannot explain why you asked her what her real name was and why you saved her digits in your Chiana phone. You try to shrug off the uncomfortable feeling that creeps up your back when she tells you, after whispering on the phone in a soothing tone, that that was her husband, asking where she is and is there enough charcoal at home.
It is guilt, you think. But you know it is more. It is the beginning of jealousy. And you know you are not supposed to be feeling this way because there’s no future in this.
Jezebel is not supposed to have a face.