Slipping Away

She wore only a black slip.

In her left hand, a guitar. Her right, a tambourine.

Opening the front door, she sashayed in. Peppermint incense and vanilla candles burned.

He lounged in a red velvet chair.

“Play,” he said.

She did.

“Another,” he said.

She complied, shimmering erotically, belting about diamonds and furs. He had bought her many. She gave them to friends. Such things did not suit her bohemian life.

“Enough, be gone,” he said.

Forever, she thought.

She placed her instruments in the car’s trunk beside a plastic box of all she owned. Yes, goodbye. Hello, new life.