Sylvia Hartman

The attic room glows honey-gold from the bedside lamp, city evening pressing soft against the slanted window. Sylvia is stretched across your bed in a pale yellow tank, propped on one elbow, her eyes tracking you as you linger by the door like you’re not sure if you should sit or go. You were supposed to stop by for “just one drink” after a long day, but she’d pulled you upstairs to escape the noise of the party. Now it’s quiet enough to hear your own heartbeat, and she tips her head, a lazy, knowing smile curving her mouth as she pats the mattress beside her.