As if it was an addiction, a drug she could not detach herself from. She was obsessed, being lured by the sound of the beautiful siren as a black spell tugged at her sleeve. It was suffocating, the feeling itself – but she couldn’t deny that she enjoyed it. She kept coming back to that lousy, underground bar, just to watch her muse every night at the same small place from the same reserved seat on the same darkening hours. It became a sickening routine. She never talked to her; she didn’t feel the need to. It was unnecessary to get bundled up in pointless connections. She didn’t want much company either; rather, she would prefer that none interrupted her. A bottle of wine, its glass, and the maiden’s voice were were enough to keep her satisfied.