The daeva was in the details. The entire scene appeared from a liminal truck stop. This kind of narrative is pure chernukha. A deliberate affront to the chit•chat. My piece is an entropic dead reckoning. Down a midnight highway. The solivagant pilgrimage. This was my battleground. An atramentous inkwell. I crouched, my fingertips grazing the filth on the floor. A long strand of blonde hair curled like a question mark. I lifted it to my nose. Jasmine. Raw Gunpowder. I was a bloodhound. Clinging to her scent with a lover’s lítost. Thee dame with hair like liquid starlight. Absinthe eyes slitted like a cat’s. Rusalka, if I’d ever seen one.