Dame in the dark

 

Dame in the Dark

I've seen shadows sway, a thicc Latina, curves like midnight dreams, eyes burning with starlit fire. Her laughter, a thunderous storm’s echo. Moments lost in reverie, like tears in rain. Now, mere dreams in time, for bed.

The town is a restless beast, snarling under a bruised February sky. I’m slouched in a chair, leather split like old vows, smoke curling from a cigarette I don’t recall lighting. It’s a blue haze in here, tendrils twisting through the dimness. Outside, rain pounds the window like a dame tapping for answers, and I’m staring at a screen, chasing shadows. That’s when her voice cuts through—Nikki. Been three years since she went cold, but here she is, in a message I’d missed. My gut twists, and the past roars back, a diesel engine through the mist.

It was 2013 when I first got snarled up with her. She was a vision—thick Latina curves, a frame that owned the room, midnight black hair spilling like ink over her shoulders. I’d catch her in the half-light, hair swaying as she moved, a shadow with a pulse. We burned hot—too damn hot—until I killed it late that year. Told her we were done, packed my junk, and bolted town. She didn’t cry, just stared, her silence a gunshot. I thought I’d cut loose. Dumb play.

Years slid by, greasy and gray. We’d trade jabs online, brittle little cuts that never closed. “Still mad I walked?” I’d type, smirking at the glow. “Still think I’ll forgive you?” she’d sling back, then vanish. She hated that I’d moved, despised the miles I’d wedged between us. I figured she’d fade. Nikki, though—she wasn’t built to fade.

Cut to 2019. I’m back, crashing in a fleabag motel off Route 9—neon flickering, roaches too bored to run. I’d scratched out a story a while back, a dirty little number about a photographer and a dame too gorgeous to resist. He’s clicking shots, she’s peeling layers, and he’s fighting every itch—until he snaps. I’d tossed it into the void, some dark web corner where shadows swap sins. Didn’t know she’d sniffed it out.

She’d seen my car in town, that beat-up Chevy rusting in the lot. That’s when she started her hunt, motel by motel, until she hit paydirt. The clerk was Della—a cute little number, early 20s, sandy blonde hair tumbling over a curvy frame hugged by gray yoga pants and a matching V-neck. Every bit as striking as Nikki, but softer, green around the edges. Nikki didn’t see it that way. She’d stormed up to the desk, all fire and venom, and sized Della up like a rival she’d rather spit on than smile at.

Through empty streets, I wander day by day,

Each corner whispers of a love once near,

The bench we shared, the songs that softly play,

Reopen wounds with every falling tear.

A scarf she wore still lingers in my sight,

The coffee shop where laughter filled the air,

These relics sting, though time should ease the fight,

They bind me to a past no longer there.

“Seen a guy with a beat-up Chevy?” Nikki snapped, leaning in, her thick frame looming.

Della blinked, caught off guard, twirling a strand of that sandy hair. “Uh, maybe. What’s he look like?”

“Don’t play coy, blondie,” Nikki sneered, voice dripping acid. “You know who I mean. Where’s his room?”

“I—I can’t just—” Della stammered, but Nikki cut her down.

“Save it. You’ve got his number. Hand it over, or I’ll make this night hell for you.”  

Della caved fast, flustered by the heat in Nikki’s glare—those fiery brown eyes, twin embers that could burn through steel. She scribbled my room number, handed it over, and Nikki snatched it with a curl of her lip, not a thank-you in sight. She didn’t need charm; she had force, and Della was just another pawn.

That night, the air’s a swamp, heavy with regret. I’m sprawled on the couch, bourbon sweating in my fist, when the knock lands—sharp, like a .38’s report. I crack the door, and there she is: Nikki, framed in the gloom, coat dripping wet. Those eyes slice through me, same as they did back in ’13 when I’d watch her laugh, her whole body shaking like thunder.

“Hey,” she says, stepping in fast. “Saw your car. Been looking for you.”

“Nikki, what the hell?” I mutter, shutting the door. “How’d you even—”

“Doesn’t matter,” she cuts me off, voice low, smoky. She’s close now, shedding the coat. “That story you wrote. The photographer one.”

I sink onto the couch, glass shaky. “Yeah, what about it?”

She smirks, leaning in, breath hot against my ear. “It’s intense. Kept me up thinking about it.”  

She moves like she’s rehearsed it—fingers trailing her collar, hips rolling, a slow tease straight from my own ink. My pulse kicks, but I shove her back, hands steady.

“Stop. I don’t want this.”

Her face tightens, those fiery browns flaring. “Come on, don’t do that.”

I stand, cross to the bed, dodging her pull. She follows, perching beside me, voice softening.

“Make love to me,” she says, eyes locked on mine.

“No,” I bark, up again. “You need to leave. Now.”

She freezes, tears glinting like shattered glass. “You’re still doing this to me?”

“Just go, Nikki.”

She chokes on a sob, grabs her coat, and bolts. The door slams, and the silence swallows me.

I don’t chase. We trade scraps online after, but that night’s a live wire we don’t touch. Another shard of her flickers up: her back, that one mark—a jagged scar on her left shoulder blade, carved from a fall off a horse when she was a kid. She’d hated it, called it a flaw, until she inked a red rose over it, bold and bloody, turning the scar into a dare.

The world locks down in 2020, a plague year that turns streets into crypts. She pings me one night, words flickering in the dark.

Social Media, 2020:

Her: “Hey. You okay out there?”

Me: “Yeah, fine. You?”

Her: “Same. Do you miss me?”  

I start typing—“Maybe”—but she’s gone before I send. The question dangles, a loose thread in the fog. I see her hair again, midnight black, the way it’d catch the light when she’d toss it, a challenge in every strand.

Part 1: Letting Go

Leaves fall, winds whisper,

Roots release the earth’s tight hold,

Heart learns to drift free.  

Part 2: Remembering

Sun recalls her smile,

Shadows fade from bitter nights,

Joy alone remains.

Fall 2021. I’m restless, scrolling, and spot her griping about her gig. I jab, can’t resist.

Social Media, Fall 2021:

Me: “Still slaving away at that dump, huh?”

Her: “Screw you, that’s not funny.”  

I laugh, let it die. She’s fuming somewhere, but I don’t care. It’s the last I get from her. January 2022, word creeps in—she’s dead. No details, just a hole where she used to be. I bury it deep, tell myself I’m fine. The years grind on, and I half-believe it.

Until now. February 2025, and I’m digging through old files, chasing a hunch. That’s when I find it—a message from ’19, sent days before she stormed my motel. I’d never seen it.

The Message, 2019:

Nikki: “This is so raw and passionate—graphic in the best way. Absolutely love it. You’ve outdone yourself.”

Her voice slashes through, a switchblade in the gloom. She’d read it, loved it, and came to me that night to live it. I see her now: that thick frame stalking into the motel lobby, tearing into Della with that rude edge, bending the girl’s will like it was nothing. She’d shown up, coat dripping, ready to play the dame from my tale. And I’d pushed her out, sent her crying into the rain.

The bourbon’s sour in my glass. I light another smoke, watch it coil like her ghost. She’d tried again that night—followed me to the bed, begged me to take her. I’d shut her down cold, and she’d left, tears streaking her face. That was Nikki: fire and fight, even when it broke her. I see that rose tattoo now, red as her rage, blooming over that scar like a wound she’d claimed.

We’d danced around it after—those stilted chats in 2020, her “Do you miss me?” fading unanswered. Then that last spat in ’21, a dumb joke that lit her fuse. She died months later, and I didn’t mourn right. Kept it locked up, until this message cracked it wide.

No mirror hides the truth I can’t deny,

Her echo carves a line through every thought,

Though love has fled, its roots refuse to die,

In quiet hours, her ghost is dearly sought.

I tell myself the past has lost its reign,

Yet every step betrays her steadfast stain.

And then there’s this goth Latina. Saw her online, some dame with eyes like Nikki’s—fiery and dark, starlit and fierce. She’s a shadow swaying in the feed, and I’m hooked, gut-punched all over again. It’s not her, but it’s close enough to bleed.

The rain’s a deluge now, pounding a requiem on the glass. I lean back, smoke stinging my eyes, and replay it all. The breakup in ’13, her simmering hate through the years. That night in ’19—her coat hitting the floor, her plea, my refusal, Della’s wide-eyed stumble under her glare. The sparse words in ’20, her question I never answered. The petty clash in ’21, then her death in ’22. And now, her voice in that message, three years late, tearing me open.

True love will find you in the end

You’ll find out just who was your friend

Don’t be sad, I know you will

But don’t give up until

True love will find you in the end  

This is a promise with a catch

Only if you’re looking will it find you

‘Cause true love is searching too

But how can it recognize you

Unless you step out into the light?  

Don’t be sad, I know you will

Don’t give up until

True love finds you in the end  

True love will find you in the end

You’ll find out just who was your friend

So don’t be sad, I know you will

And don’t give up until

True love finds you in the end  

True love will find you in the end

True love will find you in the end  

~"The Late Great Daniel Johnston: Discovered Covered:" Daniel Johnson, 2004

I’d split after ’13, thinking distance would kill the echoes. She’d tracked me in ’19, mad I’d left, madder I wouldn’t give her another shot—rude as hell to Della, who didn’t stand a chance against that fire. She’d died holding that grudge, and I’d lived pretending it didn’t matter. Until this goth Latina’s eyes dragged it all back—Nikki’s fire, her tears, her storm.

The cigarette’s ash now. I crush it out, but the smoke lingers, like her. This town’s a graveyard of ghosts, and I’m just another sap, haunted by a dame who won’t stay buried. The story’s mine, but she wrote the end—one I can’t rewrite, no matter how hard I try.