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Slice of Paradise
He has no idea what he’s getting into. He doesn’t know she’s the princess, the divine heir to all of Hell. He doesn’t know she’s a hunter, that her gun is her arrow, the bullets her spears. He doesn’t know she’s old, older then she should be, older then she is. He doesn’t know she’s killed before. All he knows is that she’s tired. Tired of leading a lie, tired of being forced. He doesn’t know what into. He knows she loves rain and thunderstorms, that she’s afraid of heights and being on ladders terrifies her. He knows she’s allergic to dust and spiders make her crazy. He knows she blames herself for her mother’s death, and, born from experience, her greatest fear is rejection. But even if he didn’t know anything at all, it wouldn’t matter. All that matters is that if he wakes up in the middle of the night, he can turn to the side and see her there, buried in down pillows and satin sheets, nestled in his arms, and he can stroke her hair and touch her skin and prove to himself she isn’t fantasy.
He isn’t perfect, by any means. He isn’t the greatest lover. He doesn’t always know where to touch or what to say. Sometimes he asks too much, others not enough. He doesn’t know her as well as he thinks he does, and sometimes that’s his undoing.
In the morning they’ll argue. He’ll ask her to leave, she’ll say no. He’ll lecture her about life and sentences, she’ll deny his accusations, he’ll plead and she’ll walk away. But at night it’s not so bad, because then the rest of the world doesn’t matter.
She doesn’t have to pretend. He doesn’t have to ignore. Neither of them know where it’s going, or where it’ll end, because, let’s face it, all good things do, nor do they much care, because, at least for now, everything’s perfect in the moonlight.
+ + +
end
Slice of Paradise
He has no idea what he’s getting into. He doesn’t know she’s the princess, the divine heir to all of Hell. He doesn’t know she’s a hunter, that her gun is her arrow, the bullets her spears. He doesn’t know she’s old, older then she should be, older then she is. He doesn’t know she’s killed before. All he knows is that she’s tired. Tired of leading a lie, tired of being forced. He doesn’t know what into. He knows she loves rain and thunderstorms, that she’s afraid of heights and being on ladders terrifies her. He knows she’s allergic to dust and spiders make her crazy. He knows she blames herself for her mother’s death, and, born from experience, her greatest fear is rejection. But even if he didn’t know anything at all, it wouldn’t matter. All that matters is that if he wakes up in the middle of the night, he can turn to the side and see her there, buried in down pillows and satin sheets, nestled in his arms, and he can stroke her hair and touch her skin and prove to himself she isn’t fantasy.
He isn’t perfect, by any means. He isn’t the greatest lover. He doesn’t always know where to touch or what to say. Sometimes he asks too much, others not enough. He doesn’t know her as well as he thinks he does, and sometimes that’s his undoing.
In the morning they’ll argue. He’ll ask her to leave, she’ll say no. He’ll lecture her about life and sentences, she’ll deny his accusations, he’ll plead and she’ll walk away. But at night it’s not so bad, because then the rest of the world doesn’t matter.
She doesn’t have to pretend. He doesn’t have to ignore. Neither of them know where it’s going, or where it’ll end, because, let’s face it, all good things do, nor do they much care, because, at least for now, everything’s perfect in the moonlight.
+ + +
end
