I met her after a particularly nasty execution. I don’t normally talk about my work with people outside of the system, but she had a friendly face and an ear that seemed to soak up every word in earnest. She was dressed like a Night-girl, but I chose to overlook it, thinking there was more to her than just the initial impression of short skirt and heels. I could smell the shampoo she’d used that evening, even over the bourbon I had pressed to my face as she talked about the problems involved with finding a sitter for her son. I didn’t want to treat her like her companions; I think I just wanted to be held and bury my nose in whatever scent she had chosen for her shower that night. I imagined her fingers both along my stomach and also slowly massaging every part of my brain, soaking up whatever information about me she could. It felt nice to be the object of someone’s affection, even if it was just as a piece of monetary meat.

My bourbon had watered down by the time she finished talking and I ordered another as an excuse to keep her going. She had a soft, meticulous voice, like she thought about every word that wanted to fight its way out of her mouth to gain control of the conversation. She was my siren for the evening and the longer I drank, the more I just wanted to listen to the way her tongue made fairytales of syllables. She recounted a time in her youth when she found herself all alone on a rickety lake dock at night. In sober terms, it was just a nice story, but I felt as if my eardrums were being slowly honey-coated and caressed like a new-born infant. I knew if I shut my eyes and smiled, she’d be there days later, still listening and talking as if the world around us were simply a revolving backdrop. She was either really good at her job or really good at being a decent human being, both of which I would have accepted right then and there without question.

I paid for her drinks and offered her a ride home, which she accepted to my surprise. ‘Perhaps she wasn’t a Night-girl,’ I thought to myself. ‘No payment had even been talked about.’ It was entirely possible that I had met someone on the merits of my own luck and yet I was still both shocked and pleased by the encounter. She had even offered to pay for her own drinks.

She was vague about where she lived so we drove around, continuing the conversation over a shared gyro and soda at the lakefront and were fortunate enough to see the sun awaken the world two hours later. I had sobered up by then, but her charm had wormed its way inside me and I chose not to care about the reality of the situation when she asked how much I was willing to spend. It was a fair trade spent in good money for her and an unforgettable night for me. I had made a fable of the night while she had worked too hard to turn a trick.

We didn’t sleep. Instead, we stared out my window and watched the sun make its lazy way above the horizon while I held her and she let me. I imagined her smiling, but her body language throughout the morning told me otherwise and when she gave me her number, I understood it was because I didn’t threaten her and that I was easy money. This didn’t change the way I looked at sunrises though. After that morning, if the timing was right, I’d let them pound through my eyelids and grip my pillows a little tighter until I was satisfied.

Her name was Keira and it was forever fractured after that.

We had gotten together several times, usually after an execution, but as much as I wanted to, I could never recreate that night. I wish I could say she got tired of the same routine from me, but she let it slip one night that it was a nice change. A guy who ‘appreciated her for who she was, not who she chose to be.’ I stopped calling three months later as I couldn’t justify the Sisyphus-like evenings. I’d be broke, she wouldn’t, I’d feel fantastic for a few days, but it’d wear off. This was our song and dance and I was tired of dancing with someone who needed me to lead all the time.

We slept naked that last night and I was glad she didn’t turn the lights up to put her leggings back on. The moonlight from the open window graced her thighs as if to say they were weapons to be used in a holy war and she caught me looking. Neither of us cared and she smiled back at me as I propped myself up on my elbow to watch her slip into her skirt and maneuver every curve beneath the straps and silk. Once dressed, she started a pot of coffee and came back to the bed, sitting above the sheets and running her hands through my hair until I passed out. When I awoke, she was gone and from there it was spotty. She had become a figment of lustful anecdotes and the object of affection thought about after the third bourbon or during that good thought permeating the five minutes before being fully awake and fully passed out. The skirt was not who she was, but rather what she did. The leggings were an added bonus and tonight I couldn’t rid myself of the thought of tasting her neck while curled up beneath the sheets with her, my hand rested heavily on her upper thigh.

Her skin was smooth and she was comfortable. She made me feel completely at ease within two minutes of talking to her at the bar and later introspection concluded that she exuded Spanish Fly naturally. I was okay with this and only wanted to be with her, touch her until morning or until I passed out, whichever came first. I didn’t want her naked body, I just wanted her, so when she answered the phone tonight, I wasn’t ready for her tone.

“Hey Brein,” she said as if waking from a nap. “Sorry I haven’t returned your calls lately. I’ve been pretty busy.”

I held my tongue, ready to unleash an undeserved lashing. “You busy tonight? Wanna do something? I could definitely use the company,” I said weakly. “And I miss you.” I could feel her eyes roll on the other end of the line as she replied.

“Sure. What time you wanna meet up? Where?”

“The usual. I just…” She had hung up, not interested in making small talk at all.

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