He told me once that if things had been different, if it hadn't been for the Syndicate, he could see me as a Bohemian. A girl with a guitar, or one who sang jazz music in dimly lit bars. I smiled and told him that I couldn't sing, but maybe in another lifetime.
"Maybe we'll be cats next time," he replied.
Girls like me don't get guitars, we have guns and sad smiles. There are stories we'd rather not tell to anyone, whether or not they ask. Dark sunglasses and hair that streams behind us on windy days, and memories of blood roses. That's all girls like me can hope for.
It would be safer to leave him to the other one and watch from the shadows. She might learn to love him almost as much as I do.