In the beaux-arts interior of the palm lined bar, she sits statuesque. You see her from across the room, eyes already flirting with yours. A champagne flute floats to her lips and she flashes an unmistakable smile right at you. The gravitational pull in the earth seems to shift as you make your way over to her domain. Subconscious, the urge to know a femme fatale. You take in her features, focusing more as you come in closer- her neck, her skin, her hair. Eyes still on you sharp, yet soft, like a lasso. Finally, you stand at her table. She motions for you to sit as you slide into the delicate scent of her perfume- top note of jasmine, middle note of amber, a base note of late nights. She holds a pen in her manicured hands and slides over a cocktail napkin with the hotel’s insignia in the corner. A poem is written on top with a keycard hidden underneath. The haiku reads…

lost inside the lounge

desire whispers to you

meet me in heaven