The Ink Mistress and the Man with Eyes of a Vulture

The ink fell thick and liberal from her tongue and she smeared it across his chest. His eyes like vultures watched her paint, the valleys of color that stained her fingermoons and dripped down the flat plain of his stomach. She retched and coughed and gagged low in her throat as the flow continued. This was sacrifice. This was love in the making. He grabbed her hands and guided them lower. They formed black pools on his hips and he began a shuffling waltz, the rainbow dribbling from her mouth and staining their feet.

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Her spine curved against the cold marble as she stretched. Her feet touched at the toes and she crossed her arms up to her elbows in front of her. The long legs of her scarf breezed the floor and she then realigned. Her eyes met those of the man behind the counter and a metallic taste tickled the back of her tongue. Her eyes moved to the imposing steel vents protruding from the ceiling. She recalled a dream the same color as they, a deep greenish grey in which she had carried small innocence to safety and sacrificed her flesh to the wolf. It might’ve been a mistake, but she was awake now. She paid for her postage and left. The cool breeze of the snowcloud day emptied her thoughts. She gulped a mouthful of air to banish the copper resting in her throat.

A vulture sat on a signpost across the street. It watched her, or rather, watched a spot behind her until a speeding bus lifted it away. She followed its shadow on the sidewalk as it circled the post office. The sky began to snow. The fresh petals danced under cars, serpentining and doubling back until the safety of a gutter or patch of grass was reached. If she was a musician, she would’ve thought of a melody to match their effervescence. She rewrapped her scarf and walked away.