I stared at the card in my hand long after I got home. It sat on my dresser like it had weight, like it carried questions I was not ready to ask.
I had undressed, but I could still smell the woman’s drink on my dress, and I could still hear her voice. I could still feel the way her shoulder slammed into mine, as if she had every right to push me aside.
Even now, the next morning, I could not shake it off. I wanted to forget her, but I could not. I wanted to forget his eyes too, but they were harder to erase. The way he looked at me made me feel seen and owned and dissected all at once, and I hated how much I liked it.
I told myself I would not go. I reminded myself that muses were disposable, and that artists chased beauty until they burned it out. I stood in front of the mirror and wa
