by John Grey
He looks the part
but is he really what
you fear him to be?
He’s suave, swarthy,
dressed so immaculately,
not a hair out of place,
and, when he speaks
so softly, so enticingly,
his accent is from another place,
middle-European no doubt.
But he doesn’t shudder
at the sight of the crucifix
around your throat,
or the garlic flowers
sprouting from the coffee table vase.
Yes, his eyes are hypnotic,
but they’re brown, not red.
And his teeth,
evenly pearl-white,
not fanged.
What if he is no more
than an ordinary Romanian count?
You’ll awaken next morning,
no longer a virgin,
a little blood on the sheets,
but so much more of it
flowing through your veins.
You’ll be undead.
But not in the way you imagined.
John Grey is a writer.
