Your Cousin Throckmorton

  The sound of glasses clinking against each other fills the room. There is a quiet murmur of voices in the background, nearly drowned out by the jazz being played live on the small stage. The pace of the music was leisurely, setting the mood of the bar.

  A man has just entered through the ornate double doors, a red suit fitted to his muscled frame. His hair is swept back, and he’s looking for a drink. Having just come from a successful meeting, this man is in a particular mood.

  He orders a white Russian, eyes sweeping the tables for anything of interest. There is a couple in the back corner, tucked into a red velvet booth. They are sitting nearly on top of one another. Shot glasses litter the surface of their table. He moves on.

  Two women are dancing close to the stage, hands entwined. They are moving together slowly. He watches one of them rest her head on the others shoulder. It is obvious that they are lovers. He moves on.

  His eye catches on a person sitting at the bar. She is dressed head to toe in red, her long legs peeking out from under a skin tight dress. She is splayed across her chair, one foot resting on the support of a nearby bar stool. The heel of the shoe on her other foot is hooked on the support of her own stool. Her arms are covered by a black fur shawl. She is facing him.

  The man watches her pick up a cocktail glass. Her fingers are long, slender, and her nails sport a deep red polish. She brings the drink to her crimson lips, tongue darting out to taste the liquid before taking a sip.

  Her hair is a natural red, long and fixed into perfect finger waves at the front. The rest tumbles down her shoulders and back. Her lips turn up as she watches him watching her.

  He is interrupted by the bartender sliding his drink to him. He takes it with a distracted thanks, intent on turning back to the woman. She has gotten a cherry from a bowl on the counter, and is sinking her white teeth into it’s flesh. He watches raptly, and is filled with desire.

  She stands, hips cocked to one side. Her eyes linger on him as she turns, body swaying near menacingly. She throws back the rest of her drink. Her head swivels to look at him, and she winks, long lashes fluttering with the movement.

  He swallows, and puts his drink down, untouched. The woman is enchanting, and his heart is thumping painfully against his chest. His feet move without prompting, inching closer to her.

  She has turned back around, her legs brushing against each other with her steps. She is walking to the back of the bar, nodding at the couple dancing on the way. He follows, body seemingly pulled into her orbit.

  She leads him up a grand stairway, onto a balcony overlooking the rest of the bar. The area is rife with deep stained wood. There are several doors along the outer wall, and her bare hand trails along the carved railing of the mezzanine.

  She peeks back at him again, as if checking that he’s still there. He wants to say something, but every time he tries the words get stuck in production. The skin of his throat is sticking together uncomfortably, mouth dry.

  She turns to the last door in the row, delicate carvings cover the surface and the wood is stained black. He attempts to swallow, but only succeeds in making his discomfort worse.

  He watches her face as she pushes the door open, her lips turned up towards her cheeks. He tries to speak again, but she places a smooth finger in front of his nose to stop him. Her eyes become lidded and she gestures out the door.

  Obediently, he goes through it. Eyes not straying from the form of the woman. He turns his head too late to notice that there is nothing beyond the doorway. He has plunged down a cliff that the bar backs up to. His body lays mangled at the bottom, arms bent at odd angles. The ground is stained red.

  The woman closes the door silently, pulling the fur of her shawl closer around her. Her heels click against the floor as she makes her way back to the bar. The couple is still dancing, and the lovers in the booth are locked against one another, mouths moving in tandem.

  The bartender nods to her as she returns to her previous position, lounging on two chairs. He slides the white Russian over to her, and she takes a greedy sip. She won’t feel the effects of the alcohol, she never does.

  She is the tempter, the thing that keeps you up at night with want. The apple and the snake. She has many forms, and will be where you least expect her. A pull of desire so strong you can’t ignore it.