a new night

 The room, her room, beneath The Atrium, was modest, measuring twelve feet by eighteen feet. The block walls were painted in a dark gray hue, while the floor boasted modern ceramic wood tiling. A mid-century queen bed stood centered on the far wall, flanked by matching art deco bedside tables. The bedding, crafted from silky Egyptian cotton, mirrored the color of orange autumn leaves. Adjacent to the bed, a simple mid-century secretary desk and chair adorned one wall, its desk neatly folded down and stacked with paper, envelopes, and fine fountain pens. On the opposite wall, a long workbench was covered with bolts and folds of fine fabrics, housing a sewing machine and flanked by matching dress mannequins. Opposite the bed, a large mid-century Asian wardrobe completed the ensemble.

Music started to play from the Bluetooth speaker on the desk, Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 72 No. 1, as Autumn rose from her day-sleep, ready to begin another night of her undeath. Gracefully, she dressed from the wardrobe and sat at the desk, reviewing her diary. She snatched her diary from atop the desk and paced the room as she read; the flowing skirt, crafted from luxurious fabric, trailed behind her gracefully with each step.

A knock on the door interrupted her reading, and she sighed irritably, realizing just how hungry she was. Placing the diary on the desk and ending the music, she called out, “Come in.”

Cristóbal entered her room dressed in a black bespoke suit of black fabric embellished with burnt orange stitching. “It's about time you got up,” he said with a sly grin. “The night is short, and you must be hungry,” he added as he embraced her with a friendly hug. “Where should we go this evening? E11EVEN, or how about LIV?”

“E11EVEN,” she said definitively. “There are too many tourists at LIV this time of year.”

With a few taps of Cristóbal’s phone, they were whisked away from The Atrium to E11EVEN in a black SUV. They entered the club unobstructed and unbothered; the eyes of those waiting in line watched Autumn enviously. The music pulsed through their bodies as they entered the dancefloor and scanned the room while they danced. They were looking for just the right one; by now, Cristóbal had learned her tastes. He nudged her and nodded to the bar; a man in a suit wearing a gaudy watch sat alone sipping his cocktail. They walked over to him.

“We'd like this dance,” she said, sliding into the seat next to him. And suddenly, she became the stranger’s world. “I’m Autumn,” she said, extending her hand palm down to the man. “This is Cristóbal.”

“Tony,” he managed to stammer, before giving her hand a playful kiss. “And I don’t usually dance. But you. You two are so beautiful,” is all he managed to stammer. They guided him onto the dancefloor. The three of them danced, as one. Tony was flanked on either side by Autumn and Cristóbal. Slowly, they shifted toward a dark corner of the club. Suddenly Autumn kissed Tony, and as she pulled away, she gave his bottom lip a small bite. And Tony, in turn, faced Cristóbal and kissed him as well. As the two were locked in passion, Autumn gracefully lifted his arm and bit. She fed from Tony as his lips were locked with Cristóbal’s, and it was probably the most amazing feeling of his pathetic life. When she was done, a prick of her finger and a few dabs of blood disappeared any wounds Tony might have had. “You were amazing,” she said and whispered, “forget me,” into his ear. The three disengaged from their dance, and as Autumn and Cristóbal disappeared into the shadows, she lifted her arm to his lips. “It's your turn, my darling.”