Wicked Imaginations

I didn't mean to say it out loud. The words just slipped, like sweat down my spine in the July heat. We were three drinks in at a rooftop bar in Williamsburg, the sky bleeding orange and pink over the Manhattan skyline, and he was telling me about his girlfriend.

Not his wife. His girlfriend.

The distinction mattered to him. He was one of those men who collected distinctions like baseball cards. Girlfriend meant young. Girlfriend meant free. Girlfriend meant he hadn't committed to anything real yet.

I watched his mouth move and thought about how it would feel to bite his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. To watch him explain that to her. *She just attacked me. I don't know why.*

Instead I said, "You're terrified she's going to leave you."

He stopped mid-sentence. His hand, wrapped around a glass of bourbon, went still. "What?"

"You think if she sees the real you, the one who jerks off to your ex's Instagram at 2 AM, she'll walk. So you keep her at arm's length. You tell yourself it's freedom. But it's fear."

His jaw tightened. I could see the muscle jumping under his skin. Good.

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?"

I leaned back in my chair. The metal was hot from the sun. I could feel it through my thin cotton dress, a line of heat pressing into my thighs. I wanted him to know I could see through him. I wanted him to squirm.

He didn't squirm. He leaned forward instead. His eyes went dark, that particular shade of hungry that men get when they're deciding whether to be offended or turned on.

"You're a fucking nightmare," he said.

I smiled. "You have no idea."

Here's the thing about Angelica's Wicked Imaginarium. It's not a place you find. It's a place that finds you. And it only finds you when you're ready to stop lying.

I didn't know that yet. I just knew that the air changed. The rooftop noise, the clink of glasses, the thrum of conversation, it all dropped by a decibel. The sky went from orange to a bruised purple. And there she was.

Angelica.

She appeared at my elbow like she'd been there the whole time. Tall. Dark hair pulled back so tight it stretched her temples. A dress the color of dried blood. She held a silver tray with two glasses of something amber and smoky.

"You look like you need a real conversation," she said.

Her voice was low. A little rough. The kind of voice that promised secrets.

I should have said no. I should have laughed it off, finished my drink, gone home to my empty apartment and my restless sleep. But I was tired of pretending. Tired of saying the right thing. Tired of being good.

"Who's asking?"

"Angelica." She set the glasses on the table. "And you're Elena."

She knew my name. I didn't ask how. Some questions are traps.

The man across from me, whose name I'd already forgotten, was staring at her like she'd materialized from smoke. Maybe she had.

"I was in the middle of something," I said.

"You were in the middle of nothing." She didn't look at him. She looked at me. "He's not brave enough for what you want to say. Are you?"

The question landed in my chest like a stone.

I picked up the glass. The liquid burned going down. Not alcohol. Something older. Something that tasted like memory and want.

"Where did you come from?" I asked.

"Everywhere." She sat down in the chair next to mine, crossing her legs. Her heels were red. Sharp. "I run a salon. A private one. For people who need to speak the unspeakable."

"A salon."

"A gathering. A space. A permission slip." She smiled. It was not a kind smile. It was the smile of someone who knows exactly what you're hiding. "You say the words out loud. I don't judge. I don't repeat. I just listen."

"And that's it?"

"That's it." She picked up her own glass. "Unless you want more."

The man cleared his throat. "I should probably go."

Neither of us looked at him.

"Your girlfriend's waiting," I said.

He left. I watched him go, his shoulders tight, his steps too fast. He'd tell himself he dodged a bullet. He'd be wrong.

Angelica waited. She had the patience of someone who knew time was on her side.

"What kind of more?" I asked.

"The kind where you stop performing." She set her glass down. "You're very good at being the woman men want to fuck and fear. The one who says the cutting thing. The one who's always in control. But that's a cage too, isn't it? A pretty one. A powerful one. But still a cage."

I wanted to deny it. I opened my mouth to deny it.

Nothing came out.

"The Imaginarium is a place where the walls come down," she said. "Where you say the thing you think at 3 AM when you can't sleep. The thing you'd never tell your therapist. The thing you'd never even admit to yourself in daylight."

"And you just listen."

"And I just listen." She tilted her head. "Unless you want me to answer."

The air between us went electric. I could feel it on my skin, a hum like a live wire. She was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with symmetry or youth. She was beautiful the way a locked door is beautiful. The way a cliff edge is beautiful.

"What would you answer?"

"That depends on what you ask."

I finished the drink. The world tilted, just slightly. The rooftop lights blurred into stars. The noise of the city became a distant hum, like a radio station fading out.

"Where is this place?"

"Not far." She stood. Extended her hand. "Come with me."

I took her hand. Her skin was cool. Her grip was firm.

We walked through the bar and no one looked at us. Not the bartender. Not the couple kissing in the corner. Not the bouncer at the door. We were invisible. Or they were. I couldn't tell which.

The stairwell was narrow. The walls were painted black. The air smelled like incense and something metallic, like copper. Like blood.

"You can leave anytime," she said, not looking back. "But most people don't."

"Why not?"

"Because once you've tasted the truth, the lies taste like ash."

She pushed open a door at the bottom of the stairs.

The room beyond was vast. Impossible. It shouldn't have fit in the building. It was a parlor, velvet and dark wood, candles flickering in sconces on the walls. A fireplace roared despite the July heat. There were chairs. A chaise lounge. A bar. And people.

A dozen of them. Maybe more. They sat in clusters, speaking in low voices. A woman laughed, a sound like breaking glass. A man had his head in another woman's lap, her fingers in his hair. No one looked ashamed.

Angelica led me to a chair by the fire. She sat across from me. The flames cast shadows across her face, making her look older, younger, both.

"Say it," she said.

"Say what?"

"The thing you've never said. The thing that scares you most."

My heart was hammering. My palms were damp. I could feel the words in my throat, pressing against my teeth, desperate to escape.

"I want to be wanted," I said. "Not loved. Wanted. I want someone to need me so badly they can't breathe. I want to be the thing they think about when they touch themselves. I want to ruin them. I want to ruin them so completely that they thank me for it."

The words hung in the air between us. Ugly. Honest. Mine.

Angelica smiled.

"Welcome home," she said.