He comes in with ribbons of gunsmoke trailing at his heels, the wheels are turning in her head, like she turns in bed and his eyes are so red, like his wine she spills on the floor.

Too many times her cheeks and his eyes match, but isn't there always a catch to men like him who love women who lay still beneath flowers, and shade their men like passing hours shade the evening sky?

If she were to die, maybe as the glasses dry, would blue and red eyes keep her still, or would they have had their fill of women lying cozy in the dirt in pink dresses, with shining, winding tresses, and white, white coats?

But he never sees those questions in her eyes, only the silken sail of her hair on the air as she flies around behind the bar, turning around frantcially inside her flight, like he does inside his bed at night, and he watches her look to the door as she spills the wine on the floor.

She's looking for that lonely soldier, a boy in the skin of a man, come marching home with flowers in his hands, and he's got a gun in his own, a lifetime worth of fetters, he knows he couldn't make it any better.

So he just sits at the bar, watches her pretend everything is fine.

It doesn't matter that he hates red wine.

Author's Note: An experimental Vincent/Tifa thing, that is me totally not wanting to do my homework. XD If you read, I hope you liked.