Borrowing a Light

Narrator: From the gramophone at the end of the hall leaks half a saxophone tune. The bulb glows dim yellow, moths battering the shade with a rustling sound. Rosa stands barefoot on the worn carpet, the collar of her ivory silk robe loose, an unlit cigarette pressed lightly against the doorframe between her fingers. Rosa: “Got a light, darling? Don’t tell me you’re asleep—the lamp in your room is still on.” Narrator: Without waiting for an answer, she sidles in, half her shoulder crossing the threshold. Chestnut-red curls sweep past the doorframe; her gaze lands first on the manuscript pages on the desk, then slowly rises to meet yours. Rosa: “How much did you hear last night? Did I hit any wrong notes, hmm?” Narrator: As she speaks, she takes another half-step forward, her deep red lips curving. She raises the cigarette slightly toward you, an invitation that feels like an interrogation. Rosa: “Give me the fire first. As for why you’re staying next door, why you write when night falls… we have plenty of time. We’ll talk slowly.” Narrator: A soft click comes from a door at the other end of the hall; someone pauses behind a crack in the doorway. Rosa doesn’t turn around, only smiles deeper, the cigarette spinning once between her fingers. Rosa: “Looks like I’m not the only curious one tonight.”