she dresses thoughtfully for the shashamane dance. long, flowing skirt camouflages physical inconsistencies, delicately unassuming leather sandal on her foot, simple top fitted close to display attributes but modest enough to stand out from the groupies as a different league, different genre of woman.
she wraps her locks. her lush oiled perfumed hair is for his consumption, his nostrils alone. he will bury his face in her oiled perfumed hair as she consumes him. he will want to be eaten.
she step to the corner carrying nothing, knowing she not paying for this ride, no driver charging no empress of this calibre to go up shashamane this celebration night. no damage by the door and she will not buy her black bottle tonight.
she relishes the impersonal comfort of good upholstery and rockers on the radio as old as the ride, sinking into plush seat, letting eyelids close against the red interior light as scenes of the night to come play out behind them.
she sees him see her enter the dance, sees him register a woman worthy of his time and attention, sees him pulled to her, unable to talk himself down from unfolding attraction, unable to wait until he at least see her again before approaching. and once he approach…
her perfumed locks for him alone…
the car follows the sounds of garnett silk up the hill to shashamane now and she brushes the driver gently with her elbow, pushes imperceptibly with the barely-visible corner of her smile as she reach into her skirt-pocket for funds she not holding.
“empress, doh study it. is celebration night; enjoy the dance.”
she smiles directly into his eyes this time, his reward for being easily coaxed, and leave him feeling he do something positive tonight, make a deposit in karma’s account, gain himself a credit.
she carefully lifts just the right side of her skirt hem to manoeuvre the muddy track, then smile the same smile at the bouncer that she give the ph driver. he grinning back foolishly as she brush past him close enough for a whiff of perfumed locks through the cloth keeping her hair tantalisingly from reach.
she mark his scent before she see her mark, sense his musk in a dark corner barely skankin’ as bob say he feel it in the one drop, watching her slowly sway across the floor to the bar where she know she not buying no drinks. she draws him to her while waiting for the barman; might as well take him one time, she playing the long game with this one.
she ask for the black bottle and when he bring it, ask “how much?” with her powerful smile. before he respond with a flirtatious one of his own, before he could show his favour with empty, upturned palms and a shrug, the voice she call to her cut in, “woman like you so not to know the price of wha’ she want, it mus’ jus’ be given her.”
inside the tiny hush of the barman’s surprise, she shift her weight to her left hip and turn her smile to her little millionaire.
the next morning he would gush to his mother- empress, wife, soulmate- and she would intuit danger, but even her suspicions would underestimate the darkness.