Bar Girl by Will Dawson

photo courtesy of CrowHand, via Flickr

I could tell from the way she was dressed and moved around the club that it was as familiar as home to her. It was as if she belonged in the shadows of the club, like a creature of the night. Her almost supernatural form made me hot for her: she had nearly perfect breasts, a toned body, finely applied make-up, a designer outfit and an expensive salon haircut.

I was surprised at how easily she agreed to come home with me. All it took was the mere suggestion of being together, and the next thing I knew we were walking towards the door.

It had been too dark in the club to notice she had that look in her eyes—the one that tells you everything and nothing. It wasn’t her eyes, of course, that attracted me to her, so I didn’t really mind.

Once we got back to my apartment, I could sense there was no need for small talk. I took my date’s hand with the intent of leading her to the bed. She willingly followed.

The sex was physically fantastic, though perhaps lacking the real emotional connection that can make sex truly mind-blowing. As hard as I looked, even as she came, I couldn’t see my lover’s soul.

The encounter ended without a last kiss. I had done my best to devour her, and she had done her best to let herself be devoured. My cravings were gone, though I wouldn’t say I felt satisfied.

The morning came. The stranger left. She might have been happy; I couldn’t tell.

I didn’t miss her.

Of course, I never knew that she had taken a piece of my soul until it was too late to get it back.