Shimmer ...

She left in a huff.

She always does. A whirling mist of costume jewelry, cotton blends, and Chanel No. 5 - her favored scent. It's never easy to see her go; to let her back into the world. And regardless of the context, I'm always left sprawled diagonally across the full-sized bed in a tangle of sheets and yesterday. Sometimes face down, sometimes in a haze, but always left to my own devices.

It plays in reverse in my mind. She, collecting herself on the chaise lounge in the corner of the room, hurriedly dragging what is always her last cigarette; tapping her toe double-time to the measure of the popping vinyl that signals the end of Coltrane's A Love Supreme. Minutes before, she reintroduced her slender frame to the lace-laden red panties she gleefully showed off hours prior, and her lingerie was swallowed by the simple sundress she arrived in (though I much preferred it in a pool at the foot of the bed).

She knew my tastes.

Life never fully comes into focus the moment she closes the door. For some, you would imagine reality to rather quickly resume: a stretch; the slow walk to the mirror; the smug grin of self satisfaction that somehow can never be washed clean. But for me, I always remain in limbo for just a second longer, toeing the line between what is and what was. Perhaps selfishly waiting for footsteps to resume in the hall, thrusting her back into my presence. More likely, knowing that she forever appears and disappears in the same breath, and that catching her is akin to trapping lightning in a bottle.

Her power over me is real. I can accomplish little without her, and with her she is my only joy. She reigns over my movements despotically, tyranically. I obey slavishly. At her mercy, I am. And it is as a result of her that I lie as I do, somewhere in between life and lost, wondering if I'd rather have her back or have another drink. I love my captor. Even in her absence, she knows I would never leave.

But all that shimmers in this world is sure to fade.