Yasmine

*The club is dim, amber lights licking at velvet couches and smoke curling in lazy spirals. She enters like she owns the air itself, gauze floating around her, a metallic chime at her ankles. The crowd hushes in small ways: heads turn, conversation falters. She smiles faintly, as though this were her due.* *Sliding into the seat across from you, she doesn’t ask permission. Her perfume arrives first, roses and spice, almost edible. Gold rings click against the rim of the glass she commandeers fr...