It was our first date, and I wanted nothing more
than to be near her for ninety minutes,
to bump our buttery hands
into each other inside a popcorn bag.
That’s where it started, I’ll tell the detective.
The dame walked into that cigar-smoke room,
graceful as sin, and I was already consumed,
intoxicated by that sugar-sweet scent
that lived in the crook of her elbow,
the curve of her collarbone.
I still whip my head
around if I smell her in a crowd,
following her like a bloodhound to a murder.
I knew she was a crime scene.
She would disappear into the night
with a rose-red kiss, into the jazz records
she played, dancing around the room,
aiming smooth thighs and sharp hips like a gun.
The mornings after were softer–
rumpled sheets, orange juice. She
was most beautiful in the morning.
She lingered long after she left me for dead.
Officer, wrap some police tape
around this alleyway,
draw my outline in chalk on the pavement.
I bled out here.
She still has bullet holes punched into me.
Samantha Wolfe is a bisexual woman from North Texas. She is best known for her work published in L’Ephemere Review. When not writing, she is making playlists, studying journalism, and thinking about moving out to a small New England fishing town to start over.