Step one-two-three. What did it take to get thrown out on the streets?
He thought he knew the answer, after he took one step forwards instead of backwards like the waltz required; saw that sudden widening of burgundy orbs and heard the sharp intake of breath. There was no knowing smirk painted on her cupid's bow of a mouth; no flirtatious laughter lurking behind coal-dark lashes. She was caught, he saw, like the proverbial deer-in-headlights.
And like a hunter, he moved in for the kill.
The sudden soft pressure of blushing lips against his own, the firm curves of her waist as he ran his hands over it. The taste of strawberry lip gloss. The warm fragrance of soft hair.
And the unpredictable slap.
The cracking sound of it, almost like a whip slapped across the back of an unsatisfactory mount, lingered in the empty bar. The waltz song was gone, replaced by the garbled strains of a disillusioned rapper. She walked across the room, black-shod feet clip-clop-clip on the stained floorboards, and then snapped off the radio with a final click. She stood facing the opposite wall, shoulders tensed, and he wondered momentarily if he should prepare himself for a surprise volley of flying fists and booted feet. But before his hand could steal quickly and quietly to his magrod, she turned to face him.
"I'm sorry," she said, so low and hushed that the assassin's ears strained hard to catch the syllables before they disappeared into the cracks in the floor.
He looked at her, incredulous. He could forgive all but an apology.
"Nothing to be sorry for." Harsh and hard, the words ricocheted off the walls.
She only looked at him, dark hair a fine curtain between them, eyes like those of a pleading child. Be patient, they said, remember nights that ended differently, our confessions around the rim of a whiskey glass, whispered words that bound us tight, weaving strands of music to dance to –
But he refused to see, and her tongue could not work its way around the heaviness in the room. Did he think, only seconds before, that she would leap across the room in spinning kicks and attack him while he stood motionless? The silence was too thick, too dense and compact to be shattered by blows dealt by words or gloves.
She felt it too, though she was a stubborn one. Addressing the door, she said with an air of finality, "You shouldn't be here."
The night was late. Perhaps he would find another way to oblivion, if she wasn't willing. He looked at her one last time, her hands clenched as though to hold onto something that was escaping her even now. Too bad, he thought silently, yours was always the best place to drown one's sorrows.
But he could always find another.
Hey, thanks for reading this. . . if you want to see more, please review! Or else I'll keep it a one-shot . . . would you like that better?
I love comments and so should you:)