I see her from across the airport bar. Her black dress makes it look like she’s just returned from a funeral, but I know from my extensive research that this is the way she dresses nearly all of the time. I admire her style. She is reading “Beauty’s Punishment” by Rice and I am reading “Philosophy in the Bedroom” by De Sade. I smile and think that perhaps I have a few things I could teach her before our time together is up.
Our blue eyes meet.
She could be my sister, for her hair is dark like mine, and she possesses the same inquisitive mousy nose… but in so many ways we are also different. She could even be my mother, but tonight she will be my whore instead, my surrogate womb to crawl back inside. Some warm flesh to break the ice of realty.
The next morning, as I wash my bloody hands in the river I realize that I miss her. This is a first, but by the time my hands dry I have already forgotten.