Alan Catlin

Assault

She doesn’t so much arrive
as materialize in a dark corner
of the bar, amid the legs 
turned up to the ceiling stools 
wearing a scent so intoxicating 
no one can resist it.
“What’s the name of that perfume
you are wearing?” The barman asks.
“Assault.” She says, smiling in a way
that might have been beguiling 
if her face were more distinct, 
if the room had been less 
confining instead of like
a cave with swivel chairs, 
drawn blackout curtains that 
no breeze riffled; no light entered.
“What’s a girl got to do to get a drink?”
“Name your poison.”
“That’s my line.” She says, 
her pale white fingers tapping 
the bar, her even paler arms 
extending from sheer black gown.
“I suppose this is where I lean 
over the bar and receive the 
Kiss of Death?”
“I don’t know. That’s up to you.”
Nothing moves. 
Not even the hands of the wall clock.