Your perfume flutters through the air:
Black Orchid and rain.
I would kiss the scent
if you were not seated between
you're vengeful god
and your Stephen Harper book of acceptable behaviour.
Instead, I chase the scent away
with tequila and
the blood on my lips.
I raise my glass to the bartender, and say:
"Now I understand – what 'treacherous beauty' means."