From the edge of the stage I become aware of his hungry glances. His eyes look volcanic, almost electric.
When he finishes playing his numbing melody, he is approached by a woman with ivory skin and smart eyes. She strikes metallic kisses to his forehead and cheeks before leaving.
With the blades of moonlight orbiting us, he taunts me with his coral tongue: "I can make you melt, I can make your eyes convulse amongst your intestines, I can make your nipples dance erratically across your shins. I will make you dissolve and crumble. I will saturate and devour you."
Skin begins to liquify as he poisons my blood. His body pressed against mine is like salve on a burn I never knew I had; it is relieving, yet his gospel screams "you shouldn't be able to do that at your age," but it doesn't matter - I'm naive, I'm too young to understand. I'm awarded with a hot, sugary prize. My tongue laps at my teeth; they feel gluey, dangerous.
But now, I am engulfed by promises that I had never realised I would have to deal with - promise never to love me, promise that I'll never have to see you cry or hold your hand, promise it now.
It's uncovered as emotional anaesthesia and it doesn't seem so fun.
I leave without saying goodbye.
It was drunken debauchery, I hope you can understand.