how doth the little crocodile ...
The Lone Wolf, The Decoy, & The Vampire King.
The olde doors of the bar moan like a mummy, they’ve been forced to pry open, so heavy as a corpse they are, and like a bandage too soon coagulated with a wound and ripped, they moan on their way back to closing.
See her? She’s all smiles. The angel on top of the tree. She’s won, this fine actress, this lovely specimen. Hand-picked for this black-forest task for that ability to appear as genuine as a saint in prayer pose. A smile like whipped cream, mouth a bowl of smashed strawberries and pinot noir. She’s snake oil scent and the sultriest vanilla bean, bonfire and lemon-water, freckle-skinned where the suns creeping touch has traced its eyes upon her. She’s come into the bar with a high-stepping grace, blue velveteen and a look only miracles could incite.
“I’ve inherited a great sum!” she squeals, clapping her hands together thrice, such uncontrollable rapture. And hardly anyone shares her a glance. Pouring ice water over sugar cubes, through the lattice and into the subterranean sewer mint of the green fairy and her anise tongue.
“I’ll have my first drink tonight!” and she plops next to this lone wolf, grinning so large and so naive, smoothing out her skirts. Her bonnet taken from her summer hair, placed onto the curve of her lap.