The Palace of Illusions. Kim Addonizio
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contritely, open it again. The images struck him with surprising clarity and immediacy. At night he lay in bed with his partner, filled with those images, painful reminders that in spite of his deep love for his wife, and his best intentions, he had failed to keep his promises to her; when his partner rolled over in sleep and moved against him, he turned away.
Sometimes I like to take off from campus and go downtown to the fancy hotels, where they have piano music and the bartenders wear tuxes. I order a Lemon Drop and read Charlotte Brontë or Jane Austen in the muted bar light, wearing a tasteful black dress, my hair piled demurely on my head, little ringlets escaping down my neck. I wait for a man to come over, which never takes long. But when I get upstairs, into a room with him, I change completely. I order him to take his clothes off, to lie down on the bed and close his eyes. They always smile like crazy at that point, they can’t believe their luck. I tell him I’m going to make him feel good, and I can see he’s thinking about how he’ll tell the story the next day to his best friend at work, about meeting this girl in the hotel bar. I put my hand on him through his briefs or boxers and remind him to keep his eyes closed. I take out my lace handkerchief, and the chloroform, and before he knows what’s happening he’s passed out and I’m straddling him, my fangs in his neck, his blood pouring down my throat.
The men I meet downtown are perfect: married, a little drunk, a little overweight. It’s bad if they’re thin, because by the time I have my fill they’re practically comatose. I don’t want to kill them, just feed on them enough to keep me going. If I were a full vampire it might be different, but I’m only half, on my dad’s side. My dad has to kill people to get enough. I understand, I guess, but I don’t like to think about it, and I’m happy I never killed anyone. Even the coma thing only happened once.
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