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Bacchanalitinerant

She sleeps away the days in the bathtubs of guest suites and ghosts out in the late afternoon. Her head is thick with noise and late summer heat, but it’s there to be sifted out: the trail to the next party tastes like filthy gold.

Her eyes only really open in the dark, pulse quickening to match the beat. Annabelle has taken on a sacred role far older than herself, but then, beneath the smudged kohl it’s hard to tell her age anymore. They’ve been doing this a long time. Dancing, flushed, throat burning with laughter, she is an oblation unconsumed.

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