Cat In the Cathouse

The streets are shadowy and solemn, shook only by the drunken alley cries of men in dance and celebration of a Saturday night spent well at Madame’s. I sink into the fire escape, as I always do after dinner to gaze at my love through her trade window. Within the confines of pink frilled curtains, Mary prepares for her evening. I watch as her slender, delicate fingers glide the fishnets upwards toward her starry-sky salvation. The midnight black garter is done in a bow for playful decoration. With mirror’s direction, the corset is laced to suppress the night’s breath and contour her body to the evening’s demands. Mary pinches her cheeks and crosses her legs in waiting. The men take their turns, knocking gently before they enter and striding confidently as they exit. They gather among the cobble to sing and praise Mary’s father for raising her so easy. To the night’s gentlemen, Mary blows a kiss from her windowsill. It is only after the gentlemen have sauntered home to wives and children, does Mary lap up the night’s treasures. She paws for her concealed leather-bound notebook and proceeds to write her stories. She professes the secrets of these powerful men, the scandals of this city, the crime and corruption. I sit on the fire escape and gaze amidst nature’s harmony, as Mary unravels the velvet seams to their thrones and melts the iron in their fists. Mary’s light burns until dawn. Sometimes she’ll look up at me with yellow slits in her eyes, and she’ll yawn over words, as she makes love to the skeletons in their closets.