His voice in her ear - she turned sharply, seeing nothing. She inhaled roughly, raggedly, her hand going to her throat, leaning against the brick of the wall. The street was slick, ugly, wet with rain. Her pink shoes, slender ballerina things, were dotted with black dust and dirt. And, above all, she was haunted with his voice, his words whispering through the wind, through time.
Dark brown leather jacket, bright red tie, white collared shirt: he haunted her right on the corner of her vision. Shady, unclipped hair and a mouth that slid in a smirk far too easily... he ghosted in her mind unlike anything else. She had fallen that day, in the studio, fallen hard enough to hear a bone groan angrily and cause a bruise to spring up almost instantly. Her instructor had looked at her with disgust for a second - maybe thinking she wouldn't see - before swooping down in concern. She remembered the man's instruction for a second before he came back full-force, soft words filling her thoughts.
She shouldn't have gotten into the limousine... she shouldn't have tugged off his vibrant crimson tie... she shouldn't have nearly lost one of her prized, little, pink shoes pushing against the rich leather seats... she shouldn't have remembered what he said through all the alcohol, through the exhaustion and seeming billions of years of labor dancing... she shouldn't have wanted to see him again...
But there she was, outside his townhouse. His townhouse. This man who picked her off the street with a simple beckoning call from a rolled down window in a long black limousine. She had felt surprise when she realized it was just him inside, holding a simple glass of scotch. His tie was already loose around his neck, and his mouth was wet with liquor and desire and fatigue. But his words - those words - that's what haunted her the most.
"Why would a girl like you cry...? No, don't stop. Cry all you want."
His lips on her wet cheeks, him hovering over her in the limousine's soft floor, his dark jacket engulfing her, his hair flitting over his face in a way it wasn't styled to do.
Him kissing her tired, sad, pained eyes.
She closed her eyes then, finding no comfort against the brick wall. Haunting her...
"... tell me, how can I save you...?"
She was leaving, pushing off the rough stone grabbing at her sexy, slender, sad frame, when she saw him, standing on his staircase, looking almost exactly the same. The exact same leather jacket and white collared shirt with dark trousers, messy but luxurious hair dancing across his forehead, lips shifting into a strange half-smile of recognition. This time, however, his tie was a silky, smooth dark blue and there was no scotch in his hand but a small black umbrella.
He made it across the street so fast she barely had time to breathe.
His lips were on hers in an instant, and she didn't taste alcohol this time.
Only desperation, only love, only worry, only fate.
