She steps out of the sedan like the street was waiting. Rain on the satin. The marquee does not know her name.
One streetlamp. One coat. Nowhere she has to be.
Venetian shadows cut the room into alibis.
She lights it herself.
Stocking seam, patent heel, brass rail.
A glance back is not an invitation.
Whiskey she has not decided to drink.
Smoke, and the night gets smaller.
She already knows what you are going to ask.
The only color in the city.
Whoever is on the line already has the story wrong.
The key turns. She looks down the hall anyway.
A finger through the condensation. Nothing that will last.
Wet wall. Heel on the mortar. She is not waiting.
Not a smile. A decision.
The lamp stays on. She does not explain why.
The strap slips. She does not fix it.
The doorway, the rain, the coat half off. This is the picture they will remember.
Half a face. The rest is alibi.
She walks. The city stays gray.