Dear Javanese Princess

Ph-l-ung. I think that's how she pronounced it, as if she held a feather between her lips. Ph-l-ung. Phlung.

She stood out the second she appeared up from a lower level with five other girls. She was wearing a candy cane patterned dress and silver stilettos. With black bangs, lily skin, taut breasts, and water puppet eyes, she called to me. I didn't see any of the others, really. Just Phlung.

She and I were led quickly up a staircase at the back of the same building by a guy with holes in his jeans and long blond locks in his face. The wear in the crimson carpet distracted me. Then there was the matter of choosing a room from two at the top level. Aircon cool over blue cotton sheets in one attracted me, and I took my eyes off Phlung.

But not for long. Just as I sat on the edge of the mattress and lit one up, she hugged me from behind, and kissed my ear. She wrapped her legs around me, and giggling softly, she explored my chest, my stomach, my groin. And I was hers. As sure as her undressing me. As slow as yellow moon rising over ancient ricefields. Bright as the smile on her face as she thanked me for a massage.

I was hers. I was Phlung's (though physically not long enough---within the hour someone came knocking on the door and belting out nonsense in Vietnamese).

And it was while walking back to my tube hotel that I realized another of Phlung's virtues: Her sincerity, the genuine desire I felt in her touch, one that had helped me to complete my purge, to relieve myself of images of you.

So that's it, now I'm free of you,  and I'm uncaring of the multiple layers of your bluff, the disconnected numbers from your collection of cellphones, the question mark shaped heart. No more delusions, my dear. 

I'm beyond your well greased smile and the feigned attraction. I'm done with your royal grab for my riches.

In fact, I'm free of all things you, Javanese Princess.

You've been eclipsed by Phlung.