Flames

He is one of them, but different. They gather like moths outside her door, fluttering ’round the porch light, drawn to her dance. They gaze intently, their desires watering like hard candy against their tongues as she flickers. Wordless they watch, eagerly they await this auction block of lust, a week’s wages ready to burn.

In high heeled shoes their desire shows and shuffles, so slowly turning, the glowing wick in her window their sole attraction. The young moth stands up fronting the glass, his attraction a balm for her burn. She recognizes him from last week, and the week before, pushing his way up close. She knows how it would be with him; quick and fumbling, but sweet. She knows his kind, and likes them. His sort never know what to say afterward, ashamed with what they had done, ashamed at where their salary had gone. Still, she hopes it will be him. At worst he would be gentle.

When the door opens she is drawn to the heat from the street. When Max speaks their eyes leave her en masse, drifting hopefully toward him, or nervously around. “Which lucky one will combust in her fire?”

“Four hundred for Madeline.” Max’s bored voice contrasts with their hopeful expressions. Our Girl senses disappointment from the young one, and within herself, though her shuffle never stops. “Oh well. It might have been nice.”

The young one’s eyes will not meet hers. A fat man pushes through the small throng, a familiar man with his wad of bills thrust high. Our Girl sighs. A new flame slips past her, and toward the window. Victoria begins to dance, the same shuffling and turning, her naked skin so sexy and smooth that Our Girl’s own hand aches to caress it, hot and buttery as molten metal. Outside the glass the boy lingers at the window, but his eyes have strayed. They are only for Victoria now; a new flame, a new desire, though still too hot for him to handle.

Unamused our girl turns to her fat man. He has been here before. He is not the worst. He likes her feet, likes her to press them against him, likes them to walk atop him, her weight in the strangest of places.

Our girl wonders to herself just how much money the boy had; how close he had come to feeding her flame? Snuffed, she clomps down the hallway in the ridiculously high heels. Funny, how dancing in them is easier than walking, but she leaves the on. The fat man will want to take the shoes off of her himself. Though strange, the fat man was far from the worst.

She resigned herself. Tomorrow would come… another day, another paycheck. Her moth would be back. He would regret it after, as something within him would be forever turned to ash, but he would be back. No moth yet could resist her flame.