all the people that you know
When she left, his world was full of spaces and shadows.
Her hair smelled of marijuana and patchouly oil and she always left it down, swinging low to her waist, a tangle of braids and scraps of cloth. She read palms and tea leaves but not books and drank whiskey from a brown glass bottle. Her waist was small and her hips were wide and her lips were dark but it was her kohl-rimmed eyes that always stopped him in his tracks.
He met her three times, and three times she gave a different name. The first time, she said her name was Esme, the second time she said Antonia, the third she said Constanta and laughed. He only ever called her pet, and even that was a lie.
She was a gypsy and a thief and a whore, and proud to be all three. She kept a pearl-handled knife in between their bodies when they slept, whether in his bed or hers. She never wore a corset or stockings, but had six brass rings on her fingers and a slender gold charm around her ankle. She had never lived in a house, and was frightened when he closed doors.
For three summers in a row she came with her family, a forest of tents in the far west field. For three summers, when she danced for other men, her eyes stayed on him even as she stooped to pick up their dusty copper coins from the dirt. She had a saffron-dyed sash and never wore shoes.
He never saw her after dark, even if they were napping, curled in his sunroom or on her straw mat, she would rouse and kiss him farewell before disappearing. Once he heard her speaking a language of rough consonants and rolling vowels. Sometimes he would taste seasalt on her skin. He never asked where she was from or where she was going.
She never said goodbye and she never said hello, simply stalked through his life like a feral cat, whenever she pleased. He could always find her telling a story to a litter of small children, but sometimes she pretended not to see him. He never saw her entirely undressed, and they never made love in a bed. She cursed and drank and smoked cigarettes she rolled herself, sealing the paper with her pink tongue. He knew they'd had their last kiss when he saw the look on her face, something fragile flashing for a moment before quickly smothered.
When she left, his bedsheets smelled of patchouly oil and marijuana, and the sun went behind a cloud.
Her hair smelled of marijuana and patchouly oil and she always left it down, swinging low to her waist, a tangle of braids and scraps of cloth. She read palms and tea leaves but not books and drank whiskey from a brown glass bottle. Her waist was small and her hips were wide and her lips were dark but it was her kohl-rimmed eyes that always stopped him in his tracks.
He met her three times, and three times she gave a different name. The first time, she said her name was Esme, the second time she said Antonia, the third she said Constanta and laughed. He only ever called her pet, and even that was a lie.
She was a gypsy and a thief and a whore, and proud to be all three. She kept a pearl-handled knife in between their bodies when they slept, whether in his bed or hers. She never wore a corset or stockings, but had six brass rings on her fingers and a slender gold charm around her ankle. She had never lived in a house, and was frightened when he closed doors.
For three summers in a row she came with her family, a forest of tents in the far west field. For three summers, when she danced for other men, her eyes stayed on him even as she stooped to pick up their dusty copper coins from the dirt. She had a saffron-dyed sash and never wore shoes.
He never saw her after dark, even if they were napping, curled in his sunroom or on her straw mat, she would rouse and kiss him farewell before disappearing. Once he heard her speaking a language of rough consonants and rolling vowels. Sometimes he would taste seasalt on her skin. He never asked where she was from or where she was going.
She never said goodbye and she never said hello, simply stalked through his life like a feral cat, whenever she pleased. He could always find her telling a story to a litter of small children, but sometimes she pretended not to see him. He never saw her entirely undressed, and they never made love in a bed. She cursed and drank and smoked cigarettes she rolled herself, sealing the paper with her pink tongue. He knew they'd had their last kiss when he saw the look on her face, something fragile flashing for a moment before quickly smothered.
When she left, his bedsheets smelled of patchouly oil and marijuana, and the sun went behind a cloud.