Vibrant jazz chords tumbled out into the streets to the welcoming joy of the Quarter's nightly tourists. The Dancer had been there for years, a steady fixture of the artiste crowd around Jackson Square. She was a loner by design, her nights filled with watching and waiting. It had become a rather bland existence.
Few would say, she was past her prime, but yet the blond had an odd aura to her, of someone ancient. It stood in stark contrast to the sultry appearing blond femme fatale, who seemed no more than twenty-three or four. Mira moved gracefully and unassumingly in a flowing black silk dress, which hung just below those well-shaped calves, indications of commitment to perfecting her trade. This night, she stayed to the shadows, her pale green hues casting about furtively as she moved through the light crowd and storefronts with ease, almost as if prowling.
Around 11 p.m., one caught her eye. He carried a cup from The Drive-through Daiquiri Bar. How perfect! Slowly she followed behind him, keeping to the patches of darkness, stopping to look at reflections in the windows, down Canal street, nearing the Quarter. Mira began to limp in her ridiculously high heeled, narrowed toed expensive tools of torture - her stilettos. Despite the pain, she did enjoy inventorying his particular assets - impressive thick black hair, large expressive brown eyes framed by lovely dark lashes and a smooth caramel skin tone; however, the best, was in how he moved. He had both the grace of predator and prey, most unusual. She enjoyed the way he confidently swaggered down the street, almost as if he owned it. The dark haired one was clad in a pair of nicely filled out "Wranglers" that topped a pair of handmade lizard skin boots of gray and white. A thick gold chain with a large cross lay close to his neck under the ivory button-up western shirt. The attire, gait, actions and how he interacted on the street coupled with the fact she had not seen him before, cried out - "Wealthy Tourist!" Somehow in her overanalyzing the fit of those wranglers, he had managed to disappear! Glancing down at her feet, the dancer slipped off the functional unfriendly shoes and began her way back to the quarter, having no interest in pursuing anything else this eve.
The next eve, the wisp of a blond was sitting posing for one of the local artists. He had been painting her for years, and had several upon display. The gray lizard boots were caught out of the corner of her eye, as she saw the man pick up one of her pictures, study it, and set it down, before walking away. Her pictures always sold well! He had been within a couple meters of reach, but yet had fallen unobtrusively into the background. Once again, the game of cat and mouse was on. Mira was ready for him, her porcelain skin emitted an opaque gleam under the pale moonlight and the oddly unlit streetlights. Only when she was ready, did she make her move. She passed by him, allowing him to glimpse her well shaped legs, which peaked through the high slit of a black silk dance skirt, highlighted by strapy black snakeskin shoes, which clicked against the stark wooden walkway.
Turning to face him, her lashes fluttered over her bright green eyes, enticing him into a subtle dance of seduction, her tongue lightly flickering over her top left incisor. A great hunger filled her, as it always did, when she did not take care of herself. The Dancer's eyes met his and with a quick upturn of her chin, her hand glided gently through the luxurious blond mane as she pursed her lips, in a practiced move of salaciousness. She wanted him, and with an overwhelming sense of must have, she turned and gave him the beckoning glance over her shoulder, the fiery red lipstick accenting the full pout. Where was the amusement of being direct? This particular technique short of actually speaking or crooking a finger and motioning, rarely let her down. But, tonight it did.
Frustrated and infuriated, the one-time Prima Ballerina glided into the darkness of the alley, the uneven cobblestones seemingly crying out their secrets of past indiscretions that had taken place in this particular spot for the past hundred years. She could envision how it would all play out. Hours later he would come to, slumped against the brick wall, with a massive headache. The tell tale "To-Go" cup would be lying in his lap, and he would be pondering if he should have selected the "Hurricane" instead, as something had obviously been slipped into his Daiquiri. He would blame someone from a seedy little establishment, as he would envision being followed. He would sigh in utter indignation, muttering about how Gringos preyed upon tourists. It had all been done before. She particularly relished the fantasy as he kept evading her.
Mira grinned impishly as she imagined what a passerby would think. A trick rolled him and left him as his jeans would be loosened and partially pulled down? The creamy shirt would be dirty, with the buttons torn off and scattered between the uneven bricks. Oh yes, his visage would scream "Wild Night" for the tourist. If he was lucky, at the sight of the crucifix, the local Priest, making his rounds for chicory coffee and baguettes would stop and offer him a hand up.
Lastly, when the handsome tourist found himself in front of his hotel mirror, he would discover a dark red kiss to his neck, the only tell tale mark of the night, and the mysterious blond. The expensive handmade leather wallet would be missing, as well as several pints of his precious AB negative blood. He would notice the first, thinking he had been a mark, needing to believe alcohol, drugs or sex induced pleasures were surely the reasons for his feeling of lightheadedness. What a night, it must have been. Oh the stories he would tell, when he got home, and it was not even Mardi Gras. Ah, the plans she had for this one. But not this night. She could wait, and she simply disappeared into the night, leaving him to stand alone in the narrow street.
