Conflict of Interest

David C. Kopaska-Merkel

Jen pressed the doorbell again

a snippet of Welcome to My Nightmare

echoed from the crypt

she loved Alice’s raspy voice

footsteps, and the door creaked open.

Inside, Persian carpet

scented candles (so necessary

due to the bodies)

fully-stocked wet bar

vintage record player

exuding the strains of Poison.

Besides Cooper, the Prince favored the classics:

Monster Mash, Ballroom Blitz,

nearly everything by Black Sabbath,

even Excitable Boy by Zevon (but not

Werewolves of London).

The Prince (Prince of what? She’d asked once

garnering a half-smile and raised eyebrow)

greeted her with a glass of black wine

seated himself at the Scrabble table

inclined his head.

She hoped the game would be in English

she sucked in Romanian.

You’ve concealed your lovely neck he said

she resettled her scarf and picked her first tile

a “V”; the Prince drew “A” as usual

They played all night; her finest word

vitreous; somehow he managed exsanguination

shortly before dawn she made to leave

the Prince stood, moved so very close

tilted her head back with one long finger

lips brushing the skin above her carotid

same time tomorrow?

She’d be there.