The night I slip inside my lover’s heart, I can’t escape the taste of blood, nor the smell, nor the pulsing of a beat around us like those clubs he enjoys—umm-pah, umm-pah. Past the atrium, it’s an entire chamber of red walls and vaulted ceilings that stretch up forever. And the women everywhere, slender, with dark, made-up eyes, amble up to bars, lounge on oversized couches, give bored smiles. He certainly has a type.
Really, I don’t belong in this club for the prettier, hipper, set. But I am somehow past the roped-off entrance, someone has made a mistake and I’m here, certain I cheated my way in, and then just as quickly, overcome by self-consciousness.
In the other, greater world, I am asleep, or he is rather, on a large and gaudy four-poster bed, next to a phone that is always dinging and lighting up the room at odd hours, beside a cigarette case that goes everywhere with the phone. But here, inside this heart, are high walls, and women everywhere, a long bar,
