You look like a queen sitting on your throne. All the spoils that go with the crown are at your feet, including me. (Even if that isn’t much of a prize, owning someone’s willingness to do anything is a lot).
Your royal dress is down to its minimum, a pair of panties that are made of as little fabric as humanly possible, and that’s it. Your nails are done, fingers and toes. Blood red. They look remarkable as they dance up and down while your foot bounces. Your leg crossed over the other as you swing your foot like a conductor plays their orchestra.
There is only a silhouette of you. The light is shining through the window behind you and I can’t see any expression. All that is there is darkness and the occasional dissipating smoke from your cigarette.
Silence blankets the room. The most prevalent sound is the smoke blowing from your lips. My eyes are fixated on your swinging foot and your painted toes. It’s hypnotizing. Long live the queen.