by Anne Wilson
The black and white floor tiles were a chessboard filling the hall and stretching towards … somewhere. I could see faint chess pieces, but they didn’t trip me; I walked carefully. On either side of a carved wooden chest, a pair of straight-backed dining chairs wavered towards me; gold velvet covers, big, small; small, big. A potted plant grew before my eyes, rustling, reaching out to welcome me.
The staircase quivered, but it was solid under my feet. The bannister rail waxed and waned but once I was able to grasp it, it felt thick and firm in my hand. I was walking up into a mirage. A very old man observed my progress from within a picture frame; he didn’t speak but I caught the ghost of a smile.
A voice behind me said, “the door on the left,” and I entered a shimmering room. The wallpaper was flowers; I could smell them. The bed was enormous and looked very soft. The curtains were drawn and low lamps were lit.
I stood still and my clothes floated off me and away. I was right, the bed was enormous and very soft.
He had spiked my drink. It was one clear thought that came to me down a long tunnel. I didn’t mind; he was so dark and so handsome and he smelled gorgeous. I knew he wasn’t going to hurt me because his hands were gentle and stroking.
I held out my arms and opened my legs.
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