Enlightened Centrism

my reading for Secret Agent

I read this piece at Secret Ballot’s New York reading ‘Secret Agent,’ at Nightclub 101 on July 31, 2026. Secret Ballot out now.

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It was a dark and stormy night.

Underneath my furs, my sodden negligee clung to my supple curves. I was on the run, and needed a place to hide. Shelter appeared in the form of an old hotel, windows glowing orange in the rain. I slunk in and shed my coat. The air was warm from the fire, and smelled of cigarettes and sin.

The bartender didn’t like the look of me.

“I didn’t know you could smoke in here,” I told him, by way of conversation.

“You can’t.” he grunted, and turned away.

“Bad service for a bad girl…” I thought to myself, and took a look around the room.

The hotel wasn’t as shabby as it seemed on the outside. Men in well-cut suits milled around the bar, sipping expensive whiskey. One of them played an old standard on the grand piano in the corner, and real crystal hung above our heads, twinkling in the firelight. “I’m not that kind of girl,” I wanted to tell the bartender, “Not usually.” but stopped myself just as he deposited a martini under my nose.

It was ice cold and dirty, just the way I liked. “I didn’t order this,” I exclaimed, but he nodded at the shadows behind me. I turned, and that’s when I saw him.

I could tell he cut a striking figure, even as he was tucked into the corner banquette. He wore all black, with horn-rimmed glasses. A smile softened his jaw as we locked eyes. He lifted his own martini and hooked his finger, beckoning me over.

“For me?” I purred, slipping into the banquette like silk on glass.

“Who else?” he said, his velvet voice betraying a vaguely European accent. “Beautiful women are like water in the desert. Tell me, are you real or a mirage?”

“That depends,” I said, letting my knee brush his under the table, “on what you’re thirsty for.”

He made no movement and took a long draw from his glass. “Everything, and nothing. Where are you from?”

“Around.”

“No.” he said firmly, his eyes raking over me slowly, though whether with hunger or appraisal I couldn’t tell. “Where are you from? I could almost draw a map with your face.” He drew close suddenly, his breath caressing my ear. “The line of your nose tells a story. Someone a long time ago, chose very well.”

“You flatter me.” I said, blushing.

“I never flatter.” he replied. His eyes were ice-blue but they burned with a pale heat. “I follow the data. And I only tell the truth.”

“What do you mean?”

“Truth is the most seductive thing in the world. Especially the truth you aren’t supposed to say. My God, your maxilla is flawless.” He paused, as if catching himself. “Look at me, falling back into my old habits. I suppose that’s the effect of a beautiful woman.”

“Old habits?” I asked, letting my lips linger on the rim of my glass. I could smell his cologne mixing with the scent of my perfume.

“I used to believe some ugly things. Very ugly.”

“Like what?”

“It doesn’t matter. I gave all that up long ago. Reason is the only thing that matters to me, the only thing that ever mattered. When I followed reason to its end, I began to see the beauty of enlightened centrism.”

“What’s that?” I asked, biting my lip.

“It’s very simple,” he answered, “It’s about two things no one cares about anymore— nuance and moderation. Some men want a God, others want anarchy. I stand in the middle and tell them both the uncomfortable truths, the truths they don’t want to hear.”

“That’s so brave,” I breathed, “Don’t they get mad at you? Aren’t you afraid?”

“I’m a lamb,” he said, biting into an olive. “I never fight back. You know that old line: Thirty years of the Borgias produced Michelangelo. Well two-hundred-and-fifty years of brotherly love and democracy produced me, and I’m no more dangerous than a cuckoo clock.” He giggled, then swept his gaze over me once again, this time warmly. “But you’re too young to know about that. I want to know more about you. You look like Lucrezia herself. Forgive me, but what are you, some kind of Slav? Moravian ancestry?”

“I’m Mexican.” I said, and slipped my hand into my purse.

He laughed, delightedly. “Of course you are. A Castiza varietal, surely.” He waved at the bartender, put his hand up for two more martinis. “Enough of this cruel topic. Let’s play a game. I’ll name something, and you tell me if you’re for or against. Yes?”

“Go on.”

“Liberalism.”

“A great innovation.” I said, as the bartender brought us new glasses.

“A rational woman. Due process?”

“In favor.” I cooed, swirling my martini.

“Excellent. Illicit love?”

“The only kind of love for me,” I sighed, and switched our drinks.

“Good girl.” he said. “But why does love have to be illicit? Why can’t love be love?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you do, kitten.” He cast his eyes down lasciviously, brought his body next to mine. “Don’t play stupid. It’s logical. It’s biological. Every man in this room turned to look at you the moment you walked in the door.”

He drained his second martini and looked at me with heated eyes, now black in the firelight. “You know, they would have turned to look even if you had been ten years younger.”

He took my face in his trembling hand. “Empirically speaking, they would have turned even if you had been fifteen years younger.”

His lips were white as he brought them to meet mine. “even twent—“

He fell to the floor.

I put on my fur and disappeared into the night.