It’s not so much a speakeasy as a ragged carousel of illicit expectation, lit by a lurid, bleary red and green and the twisted jazz of the age.
I drag her into the restroom, hands held tight and laughing as we stagger and turn against the basin.
Standing behind her, my reflection is dark and silent in the cracked mirror.
I wait for her to find my reflection, fighting all the while the serpent in my head, gnarling at a moral it doesn’t understand. Pretending not to see a darker heart that, right now, has nothing to confess but the narrowest of innocence and a bone snap of intention.
I let the moment pass. Let her go. She’s nothing.
I look at myself again; tell myself, there ain’t gonna be no heaven for me at the end of my life.
But then again, maybe no burnin’ hell neither.