...a deathly serenade...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAA
thought. I then heard the door knock; it was a
faint childlike knock that I initially hadn’t fully
noticed, until another two knocks. I am
constipated with feelings of the experience,
Lucia, I thought; the loveless structure of
mystery had consumed so much. I quickly got
up, putting on a pair of shorts, and went to
open the door. Stood—innocent, tender—
there was Leila. And for all of life’s
complexity’s, even the stubborn part of me
couldn’t help but appreciate life’s simplicity at
times, I thought, just looking at her, like a baby
tugging at a mothers’ arm or just the rain drops
against a window, inside all warm. This thought
made me feel as if I was drunker than I was,
having been sipping slowly at a half full bottle
of Jack (a true hassle to get here I acknowledged
again)—Embarrassed slightly. I let her in,
watching her drag her jacket. I was now stood
in front of the door wondering why she was
there. I am holding the ashtray in my left hand,
smoking with my right. I then took a few pulls
and waited for her to speak. I assumed her
English was basic. And as she started I could
tell that she had to try hard, which she does
anyway.
—I...come...I want to see you...
—Really?
—Yes, she said taking a seat on the bed with
her legs immaturely spread quite open,
revealing bright pink underwear. This made me
feel as if I was being manipulated, but I didn’t
say this, instead I asked: Does he know you’re
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