It is four in the morning, and I am listening to Mozart on WFMT. The music is playful and lively. It is joyous. A happy piece with strings only. And yes, that damned cello comes through with its seducing sound.

She is asleep as I think about Gladys and her wool coat, unbuttoned, lifted up over her thighs, with snow falling as the city moved around us. And though I know nothing about her, I feel as though I know everything .

A fool? I think she is not. She knows what she is doing. Calculating? Perhaps. I am not sure. Gladys is a product of my lust. I went out in search of her. I found her. Will there be consequences? Who knows.

What has happened with Cleo? She is no longer as she was when we first met. What does she want from me? As I am thinking these thoughts, there is a tap on my shoulder. She is wearing a short silk robe with her breasts exposed, her legs perfectly smooth, eyes glowing in the dimly lit room.

Come with me, she whispers in my ear. The sprite grabs me by my cock and leads me into the bedroom where she pushes me down upon the bed, straddling me, grabbing me, kissing me and staring into my soul. And although she is there in the moment, I am not. I’m a million miles away thinking of ham sandwiches, liver pates, French baguettes, dark mustard, and Gladys.

Mozart continues playing as we sit up in bed sharing a cigarette. She tells me there is no one like me. Says I am an artist waiting for his moment to come. I know she is lying. Or, she is not honest with herself.

There is now the sound of a piano played softly. Quietly, as we lie back and fall into sleep. Her cheek is on my chest. Her lips are parted. What have I done? I ask myself. What have I done?