what the woman at the retro bar said Mark L.O. Kempf
I was helping gravity with a troubling stool at the new retro-bar, Hotel de Boutique Folle, drinking what amounts to Absinthe these days. This woman, too-thin, near shorn with a silver-lace party dress was somehow keeping her bomb-red gloss on, entertaining three guys and two, well, just babes, like four-year-olds at a library puppet show. She was too devastatingly exotic a kitten to not hear meow. I slunk over to the quorum on the pretext of reloading, carefully keeping my back to hers, and waited. She spoke, in a silk, Parisian accent demure – within five she began this slight lean, so her back, then her ass, would touch me, somehow in an unmistakable orderly pattern, a rumba extracted from hi-drunken voices. Later on, much later on, upstairs, room six-oh-five, lounging till she’s ready for a nightcap, leaning till hot breath and breasts touch me triste murmure brisé; I thought you were Michelangelo’s David turns out, you’re Paolo Malatesta. Come here Rodin. I love a woman who can kiss with jazz like that playing in her head.
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