too weird to live, too rare to die

ii. miss jackson

you met her in a bar in vegas,

(and that's how it starts, isn't it? everything starts in vegas;

life and lust and loss and death--it all comes back to vegas)

she had her hair pulled up and black-white-grey feathers pinned over her ear

and she looked at you with a raised eyebrow while you grinned your cocky little grin and said to the bartender,

pour me another one, and one for the lovely lady next to me;

and she rolled her eyes, but she was intrigued,

because your mother always said you were a charmer with your chocolate eyes and your crooked smile and no one could resist that perfect face,

and you asked her her name and she said, miss jackson as she ran her tongue along her lip,

and you smirked and asked her, miss jackson, are you nasty?

and she said maybe with a small smile and a twirl of her hair,

and you'd met plenty of girls in your lifetime,

but one look into those eyes and you knew she was something else,

she was danger and intrigue and trouble,

the femme fatale from every old noir movie all wrapped up into one and packaged in a cocktail dress and burgundy lipstick that left stains on the glass of whiskey she downed five minutes later when she whispered in your ear,

come home with me,

and you couldn't refuse her,

what fool would?

and ten minutes later she was in your car, in the passenger seat while you drove at top speed down the empty highway stretch,

the vegas lights blurring in the window,

the only sound the rumbling of the road beneath the tires;

she didn't speak,

and neither did you,

except once when you lit up in the parking lot as you pulled up to the motel and she wrinkled her nose with distaste,

and you said what,

and she said nothing,

and you rolled your eyes but stayed silent,

because some things are meant to be dropped--

things like her heels, kicked off at the door,

things like her dress, on the floor,

things like your shoes, discarded in the closet,

things like your jacket, the gaudy gold sequined one you always wear to vegas bars,

(do you always wear such tacky things, she purrs against your lips,

and you answer, style is subjective as you run your fingers through her hair;

she's not the first one to question your style but she's the most direct about it)

and the hours tick by,

and her kiss tastes sour like a peach-and-lime daiquiri,

and you murmur, where will you be waking up tomorrow morning,

and her answer isn't here or in your bed,

but a whispered none of your business, honey as she yawns and pulls away, shrugging on her nightgown,

and you can only stare at her as she leaves a final kiss on your lips

and slips quietly out the backdoor

never to be seen again;

goddamn, you think, drifting off,

but i love her anyway.