You call me sweetheart; promise to teach me to be a good pool shark. The ghost scent of alcohol and cigarettes linger on the surface of your old leather Hell's Angels jacket. Blue and muted pink club lights flash off the granite of the stage and then disappear into your brown eyes as you tell me about the two shots you have to have completely mastered, I watch the shadows play over the cracks and creases in your weathered face, on the corners of your eyes. Your voice is rough and low and pleasantly ruined by years of tobacco smoke.
Everyone's eyes flash back and forth between you and the wall, you and the projector screen naming dance prices, you and the couch near the mirrors, you and this, you and that. The moon in my skin and the silver in glows an ethereal, hazy purple as I sit on the edge of the stage and listen to you talk.
Teach me, please. Teach me everything. Show me how to be gentle, but show me how to destroy--just like you.